


have you tried feeling happier?

by weatheredlaw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Backstory, Bombing, Brain Damage, Brain Surgery, Cunnilingus, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 15 (Red vs. Blue), Recovery, Slow Burn, Surgery, hearing impaired character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 21:50:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 71,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15495423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: Recovery is always hard, and sometimes war needs to be unlearned. The Reds and Blues return to Chorus and set to work making it a home.





	1. maybe smile more (wash)

**Author's Note:**

> set post-season 15, but takes a BIG step around season 16 which, i love, but am struggling to write about currently. i'll be adding more tags as i progress, both about content and ships! rating will probably change.
> 
> note: this is a fic i started in may, but needed a rewrite, so i deleted that one and totally reworked this story. it is shaping up to be...quite the monster. enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being discharged, Wash tries to adapt. But that's a lot easier said than done.

Wash has been through some shit.

He knows this. He’s lived it. So he doesn’t necessarily _need_ Dr. Grey to recount it to him, but as she discharges and parrots his medical history to him, Wash sees the timeline all too clearly, and it’s unpleasant. Not really surprising, but unpleasant.

“So, to cover what we’ve fixed since you were admitted, we repaired your short-circuiting implants, your herniated disk, _and_ reset that broken leg. You’re recovering _very_ well from the hernia operation, and I believe you’d recover _just_ as quickly from the—”

“ _Awake_ exploratory brain surgery,” Wash says. “Once again, no thank you.”

Grey shrugs. “Suit yourself, agent. Now, there’s the small matter of that _collarbone_ that I’m not happy with—”

“Please leave it alone.”

“And if you’re willing, I’d like you to donate blood whenever you can.”

“Right.” Universal donor. Wash has a flashback to sitting in the gymnasium, tenth grade, being fawned over by Red Cross nurses every few months. “I can do that.”

“Perfect!” Grey scrawls what apparently passes for a signature on the chart she’s been reading from her tablet and grins at him. “You’re free to go. President Kimball asked me to give you these—” She hands him a set of keys. “To your new home.”

“Right, the, uh. The agreement.” Dexter Grif had turned out to be quite a negotiator, from what Wash heard. He’d scored them some decent living arrangements. “Thanks.” He moves to stand, but Grey still has her hand in his and grips it tight. Wash meets her gaze.

“I’ve been allowed to expand, Wash. I have physicians from across the galaxy here, now. This hospital is going to make a difference. No sense in naming it after the General if it’s going to sit idle in a universe that needs help. I have three psychiatrists on staff and I’d like you to see one.”

“That won’t be necessary—”

“I’ve told Kimball you aren’t allowed anywhere near the base unless you’re seeing someone at least twice a week.”

“...You’re blackmailing me into getting mental health care?”

Grey lets go of his hand. “Absolutely not. Blackmail would imply I have something incriminating to hold over your head. _This_ is a negotiation, Agent Washington. And _you_ don’t have many cards to bring to the table.” She folds her arms over her chest. “You have depression, Wash. You have anxiety and you have _issues._ ”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not so quick to—”

“I know that Price was a cruel and poor excuse for a therapist. I would never put you in that kind of position. Dr. Yue is my recommendation. He’s a former soldier, he has combat experience, and he’s eager to meet you. I’d like you to give him a chance.” She leans forward. “Kimball very much wants you and Agent Carolina on the base. Your guidance has been indispensable, and you’re especially well respected by the soldiers who fought in the war, Wash. Don’t throw that away. You could really keep making a difference in people’s lives, if you’d start trying to make some changes in your own.”

 

* * *

 

The apartment building they’ve moved into has a decent garden in the back, something new and kind of fresh. Wash goes for a walk and finds Caboose digging in it with purpose, beside a young woman with a long ponytail that flaps as she talks. Katie Jensen’s distinct voice carries far and when she straightens, she catches sight of Wash and waves.

“Welcome home, Agent Washington!”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

She grins. “The captain and I were just planting some flowers.”

“Yes,” Caboose says sagely. “I was teaching Katie about things we planted on the moon.”

“You could plant things on the moon?”

Caboods nods. “Very carefully,” he adds, before brushing the dirt from his jeans. “Thank you for your help, Katie.”

“Anytime, captain! It’s good to see you, Agent Washington.” She smiles and jogs out of the garden, taking her bike leaning against the wall and hopping onto it in one fluid motion. Wash waits until she’s turned the corner before looking at Caboose, who is smiling down at the ground.

“Fun day?”

Caboose looks back at wash. “Hm? Oh, yes. We’ve enjoyed ourselves. It’s been a long, long, _long_ time since I planted flowers.” He tips his head to the side and looks closely. “Your neck looks much better, Wash.”

“Thanks.”

“You look much better. Mostly.” Caboose squints, frowning. “Yes,” he says. “Much better.” He turns and bends down to pick up his gardening tools. “Tucker is inside if you wanted to see him. He’s been very busy shouting at people, though. I do not know if I’d interrupt him.”

Wash raises a brow. “Shouting?”

“Yes. He got a letter from Junior,” Caboose says simply, and goes back to his task.

Wash watches Caboose focus for a minute before he goes inside and takes the elevator up to his room. The layout of the place is a little strange — two floors with a common area, but plenty of space between rooms. Wash finds a door that has a yellow post-it with his name written on it in Tucker’s untidy print and opens it with one of his keys.

It doesn’t have much personality, but his duffel bag is on the bed and his uniform is hanging in the closet. He wore it during the ceremony honoring the Reds and Blues and he sat ramrod straight next to Carolina while they both shifted uncomfortably in dress blues and stiff white hats. The pants of the fatigues he’s wearing right now could stand up straight in the corner on their own, so he digs through his clothes and finds a pair of jeans, purchase a thousand years ago, approximately, and a sweater.

He’s lost weight since he packed these things.

The photos come out next. One of Mona, his older sister, and Laura, the baby of the family. There’s a picture, too, of his cat, Loki. They only ever had one pet at a time growing up, and they were a cat family at heart. Loki had been a shared responsibility, but Wash was the one who took care of him, so Loki favored him as much as a cat could favor one person over another.

Wash kind of misses having a cat.

He’s putting the photos on the wall when Tucker knocks on his door frame and leans against it with a grin.

“Like your new digs?”

“I do. Very roomy.”

“Cool. Yeah, Kimball set us up. Grif really came through.”

Wash nods. “That’s what I heard.” He looks at Tucker, who isn’t completely...present, in the moment. “Caboose says you’ve been upset.”

Tucker straightens. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I am, though.”

“Look, _dad._ I can handle this.”

“Tucker, if it’s about your son—”

Tucker looks right at Wash, and Wash stops. “They’re lying to me,” he says shoulders slumping. Wash goes and puts a hand on his Tucker’s arm, leading him to a chair in the corner. Tucker collapses into it. “I have these...these _pictures_ , but Junior sent me a letter—” He tugs something out of his pocket, and all Wash can see that hasn’t been blacked out is the embassy letterhead at the top and Tucker’s name.

“Who’s Kal—”

“His sangheili name,” Tucker says, waving a hand. “Look, the UNSC told me for _ages_ that he was on Earth, going to school.”

Wash raises a brow. “And you...believed that?”

“Dude, what _else_ was I supposed to believe? They sent photos, they sent _proof_. And if he was on Earth then it meant he was _alive._ And that’s all I cared about. I asked to see him, and they said no, because they _suck._ My kid is fucking grown and working at the embassy and they’re still telling me he’s a sophomore in college on a fucking _basketball_ scholarship. What the _fuck_ , Wash?”

“So who’ve you been shouting at?”

“Officers, mostly.”

Wash raises a brow. “Careful,” he says. “Kimball won’t like that.”

“The blockade’s lifted, what does she care?”

“Chorus still needs the UNSC, Tucker. I know the war is over and you don’t think you have a dog in that particular fight, but you still need to keep your eye on it. Things could change here overnight, if you piss off the wrong person.”

“Yeah...yeah I guess.” Tucker leans forward, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I’ll take it easy,” he says. “For now.”

“Look, far be it from _me_ to tell you not to shout down a few UNSC assholes, but...do it sparingly, alright? You’ll catch more flies with honey, is the saying I think.”

“Man, you know I’m sweet as hell.” Tucker winks and stands. “Uh, thanks, though. For listening.”

“No problem. I assume you’ll do whatever you want anyway, so just...make it count.”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Captain Tucker, you cannot hit UNSC officers in the face!_ ”

Tucker throws his hands in the air. “He was _being_ a dick! Wash can vouch for me, I was _trying_ to reason with him!”

Wash does not look up at the mention of his name. Ten minutes ago, he and Tucker were trying to negotiate with Commander Tuthill, an ambassador to the sangheili, about getting the truth regarding Junior. Commander Tuthill, Wash had decided, was a fucking _asshole_ , and he spent most of the conversation daydreaming about punching him.

And then Tucker did it. And Caboose wasn’t even around to say it.

Now they’re in Kimball’s office, and in all fairness, she _does_ look like she’s about to have a stroke. “Agent Washington.” Wash looks up. “Do you have _anything_ to say about this?”

He looks between the two of them, then shrugs. “It was a decent right hook.”

Kimball collapses into her chair. “Both of you get the fuck out of my office.”

Tucker opens his mouth to shout, but Wash stands and puts a hand on his arm, guiding him into the hall.

“Can you _fucking_ believe this shit?”

“I can.” They start walking toward the elevator. “She’ll cool down. Tuthill won’t want to advertise he got socked by a simulation trooper, so you’re fine there. But I told you, if you’re gonna go after them, Tucker, you have to make it count. Getting yourself into trouble with Kimball isn’t helping. She’s going to stick you somewhere you won’t like and then you won’t be able to do anything about this.”

Tucker huffs. “You keep telling me, _make it count, make it count._ What the fuck does that mean?”

“It _means_ you’re thinking of this the wrong way. You want to go in fists flying, but that’s not how you deal with these people. You don’t fight secrets with fire, Tucker.” The elevator doors open and they step on.

“You disarm them in the dark.”

 

* * *

 

Since he was discharged from the hospital, Wash has gone on most outings alone. The solitude is nice, but he’s spent so much of his time with the Reds and Blues over the years that, after a while, he misses what he, and he alone, calls their gentle banter. So when Grif and Simmons invite Wash and Caboose to go clothes shopping with them, he agrees.

The regret is slow-coming, but expected. It does not hit until after lunch, when Caboose is getting jittery and antsy, Grif is low on energy, and Simmons is having anxiety about his cyborg arm.

“You look _fine_ ,” Grif snaps. “No one’s going to give a shit what we wear anyway.”

“Grif, this is a _huge_ responsibility. President Kimball is counting on us, the capitol is counting on us, and the _people_ are counting on us.”

Caboose frowns. “Why are they counting if there are only two of you? That doesn’t seem like enough people to count.”

Wash puts a hand on Caboose’s elbow. “Simmons means that the people in the city are expecting a lot from them.”

“Oh, okay.” Caboose crunches the handle of his bag in his hand a few times. “You mean the complicated counting. Yeah, I wasn’t listening.” He glances around the store. There’s a display of nicknacks in the corner that he’s had his eye on for five minutes and even though Dr. Grey said Wash wasn’t supposed to overexert himself, he thinks it would feel good to be able to tackle someone as big as Caboose to the ground.

“I’ll get these,” Simmons says. “Whoever’s running requisitions now is _way_ better than the last guy.”

“It’s a few people. Some of the girls from your old squad. Palomo, I think,” Grif says. They get their things and head out. Caboose is shaking his bag, so Wash takes it and offers to let him run ahead to the apartment.

“You won’t lose my things?”

“I promise.”

Caboose grins. “Okay.” He waves and starts jogging back to the apartment. Keeping Caboose’s more destructive instincts in check had been one of his mini projects given to him by Grey. It was not to be confused with one of the many larger projects he’d started at Kimball’s request — keeping Tucker from causing another war, making sure their new living quarters stayed relatively tidy, managing the training schedule of new recruits at the base, running them through the most spartan form of basic he could manage, just to name a few. Some of his smaller projects from Dr. Grey included observing Caboose, convincing Simmons to see Grey about a new kind of eye, and convincing himself to go see Dr. Yue.

The last one was proving difficult.

“Are you only here because Grey wants to see me about that bionic eye?” Simmons asks.

Wash holds Caboose’s bag in the same hand as his. “No. I needed some t-shirts. But you should go talk to her. She helped me.”

“Uh-huh.” Simmons touches the seam between his eye and the skin of his face, probably out of habit. Wash goes back to being silent.

“Ugh, we have a meeting,” Grif mutters. “I can’t believe I signed up for this.”

“It was that or lead your old Orange Team,” Simmons points out. “See you later, Wash.” He waves and they cross the street, leaving Wash outside a noodle shop. Wash considers going in, if only to eat some of his feelings, and because one of his other mini projects from Grey was to gain ten pounds, but instead he walks the short distance to the hospital and asks if Dr. Yue is available later in the week.

“Caught you,” Grey says, rounding the corner on him. Wash always kind of feels like she’s hunting them. Whether for sport or for science, that he can’t tell. “Making your appointment, agent?”

“Yes.”

“And you did some shopping, very nice. Always good when war ends and domesticity can reign supreme, hm?”

“It rarely lasts,” he says, without thinking.

Dr. Grey stares.

“I mean, we hope it does,” Wash says quickly.

She finally shrugs. “Most do. But, maybe you don’t. Enjoy the rest of your day, Agent Washington. And if you see Agent Carolina, would you tell her I have approximately _six_ important questions to ask her?”

“I’ll get on that,” Wash says, and heads back out.

 

* * *

 

He finds Carolina in the weight room. The two had agreed they’d needed space, and time apart, if only to think about things. Wash tries to remember the time they spent together, before Temple’s lair, but he struggles to fill in the gaps. Carolina provides no answers, and when he tells her Dr. Grey was looking for her, she only grunts in response before setting down her weights.

“What did she want?”

“Hm?” Wash had kind of gotten lost in the dance of lights from the fluorescents bouncing off the mirror.

“Dr. Grey. What did she want?”

“Oh, she…” Wash frowns. “She wanted…”

Carolina presses her lips together. “Wash.”

“Something,” he says quietly. “Fuck, I can’t remember. I know she told me. I mean, I don’t think it was _specific_ , but she...she definitely needs to talk to you.”

Carolina’s expression softens and she pulls her jacket from the hook by the door and tugs it on before pulling up the zipper. “It’s fine, I’ll go see her and find out.”

“Yeah...yeah let me know when you do. Shit, I don’t know, I can’t remember…”

“Might be your meds.”

Wash shakes his head. “I’m not...no, I am, aren’t I?”

“Hey.” Carolina puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been a long day, you probably just need some rest.”

“Maybe,” he says. “...Maybe.”

 

* * *

 

Grey tells him it’s brain damage, and Carolina tries to hold his hand. Wash pushes her away.

“Is it permanent?”

“Well, I’m working on that. Your memory was strong when you left the hospital, but I’d been managing some of it with medication. Now that it’s completely left your system, it’s obvious we’re...seeing the cracks, so to speak.”

“We wanted to wait to tell you,” Carolina says. “Until we knew for sure.”

Wash scowls. “Glad to know my mental health is such a hot commodity. Is there anything else I’m suffering from that you’d like to wait on the side effects before you let me know? Maybe some lung cancer, once I start coughing up blood? Melanoma, when my skin flakes off? How about—”

“That’s enough,” Carolina says. “You know I had reasons. Don’t act like I’m trying to keep you in the dark.”

“This is my _brain_ we’re talking about here. If we could shed as much light on the issue at hand as possible, me and _my body_ would fucking appreciate it,” Wash snaps.

“Your brain went without oxygen, Agent Washington. I’m going to do what I can, but I can’t grow or repair damaged tissue.” Dr. Grey hands him a bottle with six little blue pills sitting at the bottom. “This is not a long term solution. It is not a _fix_ or the answer to the problem. If you’d like to take them while I consider our options, you are welcome to.

“But you might want to put that adaptability of yours to good use. I think you’re going to need it.”

When Dr. Grey leaves the room, Wash sets the pills aside.

Caroline says, “I didn’t know when it would start affecting you again,” and presses her shoulder to his.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“...David.”

“I said it’s fine.” He moves his hand toward hers and she takes it. The space has been good for them, and he’d like for them to have more — but the touch is good, too.

They are the last of their kind. He has never told her he loves her, because the _way_ he loves her is too hard to explain. Instead, he leans into her space, and she leans back into his, and they hold each other up until they don’t need it anymore.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Yue’s office is very chaotic, with books still in little white crates and a shelf in the corner that needs to be put together. He’s sitting on the ground with it, turning the instructions over in his hands when Wash comes in, two minutes late.

Yue looks up. “Sorry, sorry. I completely lost track of time. I can just never figure these kind of things out.”

“You should ask Caboose, he’s pretty good with stuff like that.”

Dr. Yue frowns. “Who?”

“Ah. No one, don’t worry about it. I’m Wash.”

They shake hands. “Jason Yue. I don’t have a lot of info on you, but what I _do_ have says you were a corporal, right?”

“I was.”

Yue taps his arm, pointing to an invisible patch. “Me, too.” He tosses the paper instructions onto the floor and gestures for Wash to sit on a couch by the wall. “You’ll have to excuse the mess, I just had my younger sister send everything here and she took a thousand years to do it. I don’t know if you’ve got siblings—”

“Two sisters.”

“Let me guess, you’re in the middle, right?”

Wash laughs. “You can tell?”

“Sometimes. I’m the same way.” Dr. Yue sits across from Wash and scribbles a few things on the tablet in his lap. “I don’t want to make a lot of assumptions about you, Wash. You chose to be here, and I’m glad you’re here. There’s a lot we can talk about, over these sessions, but I want this to be something guided by you. I’m here to offer you what I know and see how it helps you. If you feel like something I’m doing isn’t working for you, then we can shift focus.”

Wash knows it’s stupid to ask, but he does it anyway. “...You have to take notes?”

Dr. Yue nods. “Yeah, Wash. I have to take notes.”

“...Alright.”

And that’s how it starts.

 

* * *

 

“You know who might be able to help a memory challenged friend such as yourself,” Tucker says, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. “Caboose.”

“How can _Caboose_ help me?”

Tucker shrugs. “Caboose takes notes on stuff all the time. I mean if you wanted to find out who the president of the brain damage club on Chorus was, look no further.”

Wash frowns. “...Caboose has brain damage?”

“That’s what Grey said. He’s kind of evened out, but he had AI’s yanked out of his head, he’s crashed into more shit headfirst than anyone I’ve ever met. Lost oxygen to his suit a couple of times—” Tucker frowns. “Wow. I owe Caboose, like, sixty apologies.” He looks into his bowl for a moment, frowning. “Anyway, Grey says you’re damaged goods, huh?”

“You need to work on your phrasing.” Wash gets up from the kitchen table. “Where is Caboose?”

“No idea. Hey, Sheila?”

“ _Yes, Captain Tucker?_ ”

“Where’s Caboose?”

“ _Captain Caboose is currently meeting with President Kimball and four UNSC representatives. Would you like me to send him a message?_ ”

“No, it’s alright. Thanks, Sheila.”

“ _Of course, captain._ ”

Wash leans against the counter. “You know her name’s not Sheila.”

“It’s easier this way. How’s therapy?”

“Good. I need to get going, actually. Gotta work on—” Wash stops as he hears footsteps coming down the stairs into the sitting room and Donut comes in, chatting with Kaikaina.

“I think the high pony is a good look for you.”

“Ugh, it’s just so _heavy_ , and _thick._ ”

Tucker says, without hesitation, “Bow chicka bow wow,” and Kai looks up grinning.

“What’s up, pencil dick?”

Tucker scowls. “You are a fucking _life ruiner._ ”

“And you’re bad at sex. Toss me an apple, cop?”

Wash turns and reaches into the bowl. Donut nods to Tucker, but he moves around Wash like he isn’t there. It’s...fairly typical of him, now that they’re in close quarters. If Wash thinks back on it, during their time with the Feds they didn’t talk much. In hindsight it would have been a _great_ time to talk about, say, shooting Donut in the chest and leaving him for dead, but Wash had had other things on his mind.

Now they’re very awkward roommates, and it’s... _uncomfortable._

Wash can only imagine how it might feel for Donut.

Kai says, “Alright, I’m going to work,” and that snaps Wash out of it.

“I’ll walk with you. I have an appointment.” He trails after her and onto the elevator.

She turns to him. “Why do you and Donut act like the floor is lava when you’re around one another?”

“...What?”

“You know, that game you used to play as a kid? Didn’t you play it? Where, like, parts of the floor were lava and you couldn’t touch them? That’s _totally_ the two of you about...whatever.”

Wash blinks. It’s...an _astounding_ metaphor, considering. He nods. “Right. I, uh. I shot him. Thought I’d killed him. Didn’t...really feel bad about it.”

Kai raises a brow. “Dude. That’s _heavy._ ”

“I know.”

“You feel bad about it now though, right?”

“I do.”

“...So you told him that and he was still pissed?”

Wash shakes his head. “No. I...haven’t told him anything. I was waiting — _ow!_ What the _hell?_ ” Wash grabs his arm where she’s pinched him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with _me?_ You fucking _shot Donut_ , and you never told him you were sorry? What is your _damage?_ ”

“It’s brain damage, actually,” Wash says.

Kai nods. “Yeah, I saw your chart.” They step off the elevator. “So you’re _going_ to tell him sorry, right?”

“I want to. I just...I can’t find the right time.”

“Dude, literally _any_ time would be the right time. You’re absolutely stalling because you’re totally obsessing over the fact that he might still hate you.” She frowns. “Are you a Leo?”

“No, I’m an Aquarius.”

Kai presses her lips together.

Wash kind of hopes he forgets this later.

 

* * *

 

“Sometimes we get sort of caught up in what we’ve lost,” Dr. Yue says one days. “So I wanted you to tell me about the things you _have_. Things you’ve gained and got to keep. How does that sound?”

Wash is struggling to keep up with this session. The memory spells come and go — this morning he’d forgotten Kaikaina’s name which wasn’t the end of all things, but embarrassing, to say the least. And it was better than the day before, when Tucker had been talking about Junior and Wash had just asked simply, “Who?”

Not his best day.

And right now, he’s feeling the stress of this session, the stress of his diagnosis, the stress of trying to remember where he’s supposed to go after this, because he _knows_ he has somewhere to be —

“Wash?”

“Uh, the Reds and Blues, I guess.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Not I guess. I know that for sure. It’s only of the few things I actually _do_ know.”

“The simulation troopers.”

“They’re soldiers,” Wash corrects, without thinking. “Bullets are real, even when your war is fake. They shouldn’t have helped me and they did. I don’t deserve what they gave me.”

“And why is that?”

“I hurt them. Shot some of them and left them for dead. Used them. Never said I was sorry. Tried to blame it on something else. Some _one_ else.” Wash leans forward. “I have Carolina, too. And I’m grateful for that.”

Dr. Yue takes a few notes. “You struggle with guilt, then. You feel guilty about your friends. You feel guilty about being one of the last freelancers. Is that correct, Wash?”

Wash nods. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

“Well. We can work on that. How are you dealing with the memory loss?”

“...Not great.”

“I have some solutions, but I’d like to see what you come up with first. You know your brain better than I do.” He glances at his watch. “That’s good for today, I think. Let me know if you need another session this week, but otherwise I’ll see you on Monday.”

Wash nods and heads out of the office. The path home is engrained — it feels like he _blinks_ and he’s there. God, a _nap_ would be great right now. He should ask Caboose —

He should ask _Caboose._ Tucker just told him this...a few days ago? A week ago? Was it even Tucker who told him? _Fuck_ , he needs to sort this out.

“FIL—” Wash sighs. “FILSS, do you _like_ being called Sheila?”

“ _They seem to remember Sheila very fondly._ ”

“Yeah, seems that way.”

“ _Did you need something, Agent Washington?_ ”

“Where is Captain Caboose?”

“ _In the training room._ ”

“Thanks, FILSS.” Wash heads back downstairs. Caboose likes to go at the punching bag in the afternoons, but he usually trains alone, so Wash is surprised that Tucker is with him, speaking in a low voice. As Wash steps just outside the room, he hears Tucker say, “—think you can trust that?”

“I do not know why it’s so hard for you to believe.” The sound of fists hitting the bag fills the room.

Tucker says louder, “I just don’t want you to bite off more than you can chew.”

A pause in the punching. “I can make choices, Tucker. Just because you think I am...that I’m... _stupid_ —”

“Dude, I didn’t say—”

“You never _have_ to,” Caboose says. “No one _has_ to.” The punching starts again, fiercer, now, and faster. Wash counts the beats, counts the pace, and he’s not far off when he anticipates one last hit and hears the bag swing. Caboose must catch it because it stops and he’s breathing heavy when he says, “I am a soldier. I am not different from you.”

Wash takes the pause there to come in, knocking on the doorframe as he does. “You guys training together now?”

“Sort of,” Tucker says. He runs a hand cross the top of his head. “Can you...can you talk to him?”

“I am standing right here.”

Tucker scowls. “ _Fine._ Will you tell Wash about this? I just...I want to make sure it’s the right choice.”

Wash frowns. “What’s going on?”

Caboose shrugs. “President Kimball says we are very popular.”

“She needs a talking head,” Tucker snaps.

“When you _say_ that,” Caboose says, “it sounds like you do not like her. Or like she is wrong. But she isn’t.”

Wash nods. “She wants you to go to the other settlements on Chorus, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.” Caboose starts peeling the wraps from his hands. “And I said I would. I can be good at things,” he adds quickly, almost defensively.

“You can,” Wash agrees. “And I think it’s your choice, Caboose. Tucker?”

Tucker covers his face with a hand. “Yeah. Yeah, you can. I’m sorry, Caboose. I’m happy that Kimball wants you to do this. Seriously.”

Caboose nods. “Thank you, Tucker.” He looks at Wash. “Did you need something?”

“I did. Some advice, actually. About...remembering stuff.”

Caboose’s expression brightens. “Really? I can do that! I can help with that!” He grabs Wash’s arm and pulls him out of the room and toward the elevator. “I have _so much_ stuff to show you! Tucker said you might, so I got everything ready, but then you didn’t. That’s okay, though. I kept it all out.”

Upstairs, Tucker and Wash watch Caboose pull out the notes he’s kept over the years — “I kept one for a day when Church said I did a good job. And this one is for when Tucker shared his cookies in the mess.” He grins. “And I have a notebook.” He shows them, each page marked with dates and places, important things that happened.

“Caboose, this is...really great. All of it.”

“Thank you.” He goes to the little desk in his room and pulls out another book. “This one’s for you, Wash. I have lots, so.”

Wash takes the book and flips through the pages. “Thank you. Both of you,” he adds.

Tucker shrugs. “Told you. Caboose has stuff figured out.” He pauses. “And I shouldn’t be worried about you. You’re right, Caboose. You’re a soldier and you can do this.” Tucker claps Caboose on the shoulder. “You two have fun bonding. I’m gonna go figure out how to get what I want from Commander Tuthill.”

“ _Make it count_ ,” Wash calls after him, before he takes his notebook to his room to write about the day.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Grey clears him to work on the base, and Wash starts planning the training exercises. It feels good to organize something while his own head seems to be so scrambled. He keeps the little blue notebook on him and, when something important happens, he makes a note of it. It orients him. Keeps him pointed due north. And Wash likes that. It takes time, but he’s starting to feel like he can really do this.

And that’s when he meets Artemis.

That isn’t her name when he meets her, of course. Her name, according to Caboose, is Baby Cat, and she is _miniscule_ in his trash can lid hands that hold her close to his chest. He found her on a visit that morning to one of the Chorusian settlements and, when no one claimed her, promptly took her home.

“She’s for you,” Caboose says, and hands the kitten to Wash. “You can call her whatever you want, but I vote for Baby Cat. They said she was supposed to be a mouser, but her mom died. Which I thought was very sad.” He carefully scratches behind her ears as Wash holds her close. “I think she needs you.”

Wash looks up at Caboose and thinks about how he’s met a lot of people who’ve tried to kill him, who’ve lied to him and used him. He thinks about how he’s always done the same, how he’s had to _unlearn_ the things he used to be so good at.

And he thinks about how Caboose can pick up a jeep and move concrete walls and knock a punching bag from its support beam — but he once saw Caboose pick up a baby lizard and carry it back to base and he once saw Caboose pour Tucker a glass of orange juice when he had the flu and now he’s cooing at the smallest kitten Wash has ever seen.

“Do you like your present, Agent Washington?”

Wash looks down at the sleeping kitten, then back to Caboose. Wash never had brothers, and he knows Caboose didn’t either, so he can’t be sure if he’s feeling the same way right now.

But Wash gently takes Caboose’s hand before he pulls away and gives it the strongest squeeze he can manage.

He says, “I love it, Caboose,” and Caboose grins from ear to ear and squeezes back.

It hurts like hell, but it’s worth it, to know he kind of feels the same way.


	2. advanced sangheili linguistics course (tucker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker's non-existent reputation seems to haunt him, while some UNSC officers show their true colors on Chorus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains some prejudiced ideas and themes re: sangheili, junior, and junior's parentage.

“Why do you need this?” Tucker asks. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits across the table from Wash. “Like no offense, dude, but is _this_ so hard to remember?”

Wash is sitting across from him, rolling a pen between his thumb and middle finger, giving Tucker that _look_ that just says, _really?_ Tucker knows that look from Wash. He _hates_ that look from Wash.

“Fine. Okay, uh Reds first, I guess. Grif and Simmons are leading the whole ‘put Chorus on the galactic map’ initiative. Cool downtown, free wi-fi, venues, restaurants, all that shit. Sarge is...spending a lot of time with Grey, which I do _not_ think is good for either of them. But from what I understand, he’s also doing some kind of munitions training. Couldn’t pay that guy to get away from the base.” Wash nods, writing all this down. He has a surprisingly messy scrawl, which Tucker makes a note of to tease him about later.

“What about Donut?”

“...I don’t know if Donut would be cool with you knowing what he’s getting up to.”

“Can you just tell me, please?”

Tucker nods. “Alright, alright. He’s working on armor redesigns.” Wash looks up. “ _Apparently_ Donut has a degree in kinesiology. Go figure.” Wash stares. “That’s like, the study of the human body and movement. Donut kept bitching to Kimball that our new armor was super uncomfortable, which it was. So she got super pissed and was all, if you think you can make it better, go for it.” Tucker shrugs. “So he did. Anyway, now she’s got him working on all future armor prototypes with their engineers, and then after that she’s going to have him rework the breathability of fatigues. Wants ‘em to be, like, actually protective without being super heavy.”

Wash nods and takes all this down. Tucker kind of feels for the guy. It must suck to have to try and keep track of all this, just for your own peace of mind.

“And Caboose is…where is he, right now?”

“Visiting some colony called Mendeleev. Making an appearance, taking supplies. People love the guy.”

Wash shrugs. “Makes sense.”

“Yeah...yeah I guess it does.” Tucker taps the handle of his mug with a blunt nail. “You know what your job is, right?”

Wash nods, flipping a few pages back and tapping one of them. Tucker can make out a few things, even sees his name after one of the little bullet points.

“What about Doc?” Wash asks.

“Working at the hospital. So is Kay.”

“I remember that, I think. She was wearing scrubs this morning.”

“Yeah, I guess she was in school to be a physician’s assistant or a nurse or something at one point? Grey says she has ‘potential’ or whatever. I mean, she’s smart, so. Yeah. I believe that.”

Wash raises a brow. “You’re annoyed because you don’t have a special new job, aren’t you?”

“Look, I _had_ one and Kimball fucking took it from me.”

“Because you embarrassed her,” Caboose says, coming into the kitchen. He pours himself a cup of coffee and turns to lean against the counter. “What are we talking about?”

Wash leans forward. “What do you mean, Caboose?”

Caboose shrugs. “Tucker hit Commander Tuthill in the face. Someone yelled at Kimball about it. She’s very embarrassed. She told everyone you were a very good soldier. Now, they don’t believe her.”

Tucker feels his mouth working like a fish — a stupid, _stupid_ fish — and says, “I _am_ a good soldier.”

“Yes, but you hit someone.” Caboose goes around the table and looks at Wash’s notes. “Is it helping?”

“Very much,” Wash says. “Its—” He stops as the little orange tabby hops into his lap. “Well good morning, sleepy head.” He scratches behind her ears and lifts her up so she can perch on his shoulders. He’s named her Artemis, which Tucker had to google, or whatever. Some kind of hunting goddess.

Tucker thinks she looks at him like prey, but he was never really a cat person.

“Maybe you should go talk to Kimball,” Wash says, closing his notebook. “She might appreciate it more if you reached out, instead of spending your time up here, pouting.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Tucker says, but it sounds petulant even to his own ears. He groans and lets his head fall back. “ _Ugh_ , fine. I’ll go talk to her.” He pushes his chair back. “I can’t believe this shit.”

“Good luck!” Caboose calls after him.

Tucker lets the door slam.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, Captain Tucker, but President Kimball is in a meeting for another fifteen minutes.”

Tucker raises a brow. “Do I look busy?”

Kimball’s assistant presses her lips together. “Just wait right there.” She points to a stiff plastic chair along a large window that overlooks New Armonia. Tucker can see cranes and sparks and construction, but if he squints he thinks he can see some of Grif and Simmons’ initial handiwork — a new burger place, little towers on certain buildings that keep people connected. Tucker knows it was Grif’s idea to build a new tram and he can see the bones of it starting to go up right underneath him.

Eventually Kimball’s office door slides open and a few UNSC officers walk out, talking with one another in low voices. Kimball stands in the doorway, watching them go. When she sees Tucker sitting outside, her expression falters.

“Captain, I have—”

“Please,” Tucker says. “Don’t...send me away. Let me come in, we need to talk.” He stands, but doesn’t approach. She makes him think of Wash’s cat, for a second, watching him carefully, like she might either embrace him or bite his head off. After a moment, she nods and Tucker follows her inside. She sits at her desk and Tucker sits on the other side.

“Tucker—”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About Tuthill. I...lost my temper. It was in the heat of the moment, I was angry, I was...I was _frustrated_ —” Kimball holds up a hand and he stops.

“I know,” she says. “There’s something you want and you can’t get it. _Believe_ me, Tucker. I know that feeling.” She sighs and it’s like a mask comes down. Exhaustion pulls at the corners of her eyes, the edge of her mouth. She’s held together by tape and paperclips, coffee and those weird energy jelly beans she’s always eating. There’s a bowl on her desk. Tucker takes a few.

“I need to know where my son is,” he says.

“And I need you to toe the goddamn line,” Kimball snaps. “I can _barely_ get them to take Caboose seriously, do you think it _helps_ , throwing your weight around like what you want _matters_ to them? Because they don’t _care_ , Tucker. They didn’t care when they lied to you the first hundred times, and they don’t care _now._ ” She swears and gets up from her chair, going to the window in her office that overlooks the capitol. “Tucker...do you know how fragile this relationship is?”

“I’m understanding more, I think.”

She breathes so heavy, he can see the fog on the window. “I will _always_ appreciate you, for everything you’ve done. Every sacrifice, every drop of blood lost. But that war is over, and I can’t keep telling people what you’ve _done_. They want to see what you can _do._ ”

“Then give me something,” Tucker says, getting up from his chair. He goes to her by the window. “Give me literally anything, let me prove myself to you.”

Kimball glances at him. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me. I already know what good you’re capable of. I _need_ you to prove yourself to them. They need to see that we didn’t win the war by a stroke of luck.” She turns to her desk. “Santa? Please forward the list of alien tech recruits to Captain Tucker’s portal.”

The AI appears above Kimball’s desk. “ _Of course._ ”

“I have eleven young soldiers who showed serious talent for alien weaponry. I want you to work with them. Train them, put them through the fucking _ringer_ , captain.”

Tucker nods. “I can do that.”

“I want you to find your son,” she adds. “But I need you to have just an _ounce_ of diplomacy when you do it. Every choice you make in this, _make it count._ ”

Tucker sighs. “Wash keeps saying that, too.”

“It’s good advice,” Kimball says. “It only means that...everything you do, it _has_ to get you closer. It has to net something. The UNSC doesn’t play games, Tucker.

“So you can’t either.”

 

* * *

 

Caboose has a migraine, and it’s the quietest Tucker’s ever seen him. Kai gets some painkillers from the hospital, but it’s a little too late. He says it helps, just a bit, right before he passes out on the sofa with a wet rag over his eyes. He wakes up early the next morning, and promptly runs to the sink retches.

“That’s the third one this week,” Kai says. “You need to go see that doctor.”

Caboose doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head as he dry heaves and gasps for air. Kai rubs small circles on his back, leaning in and saying quietly, “It’s your eyes, isn’t it?”

“ _No_ ,” he snaps.

“Caboose.”

He groans and retches again before he says, “My eyes are not broken.”

“You’re straining them. It’s bad for you when you do that, Caboose.”

“Do not talk to me like I don’t _know_ —”

“Just go get your eyes checked! I’ll make you an appointment with Dr. Lewis today.”

Tucker comes over, trying to be helpful with a glass of water. “What’s up?”

“Caboose can’t _see_ ,” Kai says. “And he’s been keeping it to himself because he doesn’t want to bother anyone—”

“I do not need glasses.”

“Caboose—”

He straightens and takes the water from Tucker, draining it in one go. “If I have glasses, I can’t wear my helmet.”

Kai rolls her eyes. “Dude, it’s a helmet, I’m sure—”

“No, he’s right,” Tucker says. “The helmet’s really important. It saved his life, and Wash fixed the old one for him. It’s the one he’s had forever now.” Tucker takes the glass and fills it again. “Here.” Caboose grips the glass with a trembling hand, drinks slower this time. “How long have you had trouble seeing?” Caboose shrugs. “Hey, don’t hold out on me.”

“A while.”

“How long is—”

“ _A while_ ,” Caboose says, and steps away from them. He sighs. “It really hurts. Will glasses help?”

Kai shrugs. “We can’t know until you try.”

He finally nods. “Alright. I will go. Tucker, will you go with me?”

“Absolutely.” Tucker takes the glass, which Caboose is holding just a _little_ too tight for comfort. “Kay will get you the appointment, and I’ll go with you, alright?”

“...Okay.” Caboose goes upstairs to lay down. Kai heads to the hospital and gets an appointment for later in the afternoon. It takes a bit to get him up again, and Caboose looks exhausted, leaning back in the waiting room, his eyes closed, breathing slow and even.

Dr. Lewis is a very small woman and has to lower her chair all the way down so she can give Caboose a proper exam. Tucker’s always had good vision, so he doesn’t know much about that weird chart they make you look at, but Caboose can barely rattle off the first two rows before he gets stuck.

“Okay, captain.” Lewis turns the lights on and Caboose groans. “Are you still having some sensitivity?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Well, you’ve probably been straining for a while now. That’s not good for your brain, Michael.”

Caboose’s head lifts sharply at his name, but Dr. Lewis doesn’t seem to notice.

Tucker does.

“I suspect it’s simply just degenerative as well. Your chart says you’ve had a few TBI’s that went untreated. Does anyone in your family wear glasses?”

“My dad did,” Caboose says.

“It’s probably genetic to an extent. Kaikaina told me you’re worried about your helmet, but I don’t want you to be. I’m going to have some lenses made up and put into some frames that I think would look good on you and sent to your apartment. Your helmet’s in the armory, yes?” Caboose nods. “Perfect. I’ll have someone bring it to me and I’ll fit your HUD with your prescription. You won’t need to wear your glasses underneath. Does that sound alright?”

Caboose smiles for the first time all day. “Yes,” he says.

“Alright then. Head home, get some rest. We’ll get this sorted for you.”

 

* * *

 

At home, Caboose stretches out on his bed and Tucker tosses a blanket over him.

“She looks like my sister Julie,” Caboose mutters.

“Who, Dr. Lewis?”

“Yeah.” He yawns. “Thanks for going, Tucker.”

“No problem.”

“Hey, did you find Junior yet?”

Tucker sighs. “No, not yet.”

“I hope you do. I miss him.”

“Yeah.” Tucker turns out the light. “Me, too.”

 

* * *

 

He has photos the UNSC sent him, but he has others, too. There was a nice girl who worked the med tent, when they were stationed in the desert, and she had a camera with her. Whenever she went off base, she’d get the photos developed and gave Tucker the ones of him and Junior.

No one was there, that year and a half they spent in the desert. There were soldiers, of course, and other sangheili. But when Tucker remembers that time, it’s like they were alone. They worked and Junior played and learned English and Tucker tried to learn sangheili and it was a fucking _disaster_ — but it was _their_ disaster. They took Junior away because it was getting dangerous, because they said they could send him to school, and he could have a _life._

Tucker gets, sometimes, why Wash went a little off the deep end.

All the lying? You get a little sick of it. It makes you just want to —

“ _Make it count._ ”

Wash keeps saying it, Kimball fucking _explained_ it. And now Tucker _gets_ it.

“Sheila, where’s Simmons?”

“ _Captain Simmons is in his office at the capitol building._ ”

“Tell him I’m coming. I’ve got an idea.”

 

* * *

 

The UNSC commanders have housing just across the street from the base, so Tucker lingers in the lobby downstairs until Commander Tuthill steps out of the elevator. He looks _absolutely_ like he doesn’t want to see Tucker, but puts on a brave face after a few seconds.

“ _Captain._ Do you need something?”

“I do.” Tucker extends a hand. “I needed to apologize. You’re just a man trying to do your job. I shouldn’t have gotten angry.”

Tuthill raises a brow, then takes Tucker’s hand, giving it a firm shake. “Well. Apology accepted. I’m glad to see you’re finally thinking straight.”

“Yeah, you know, sometimes those pregnancy hormones just—” Tucker makes a _wooshing_ motion with his other hand. “They come right back.”

“Yes, I’m — wait. What?”

“Anyway, I’ve got to get to the capitol to meet with Kimball, but I’m glad I was finally able to catch you.”

“Of course,” Tuthill says. “I’m glad you were able to get over your initial frustration. You should trust the UNSC only has your... _son’s_ best interests in mind.” He smooths his hair back and puts his cap on. “Good day, captain.”

Tucker waves as he goes. “And good day to _you_ , Commander.” He waits until Tuthill’s gone into the base before heading to the capitol building and upstairs to Simmons’ office. When the door is shut, Tucker leans against it and finally _breathes._ “Did it work?”

“It’s on him, if that’s what you mean.” Simmons looks up from his computer. “We’ll know for sure when he accesses his computer later.”

“Awesome.”

“I’m sending the feeds to your own portal, I can’t keep this shit here.”

Tucker waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, no worries. I appreciate this.”

Simmons shrugs. “I totally forgot we had this stuff lying around.”

“It’s uh. It’s Felix’s old gear,” Tucker says quietly. “He used it whenever we took Feds. Scare ‘em a little, stick one of these on them. We’d get everything.” He picks the spare out of his pocket and holds it to the light. A pale, paper-thin microchip. It’s true, this was Felix’s stuff. Kimball confiscated most of it, but some Tucker always felt was too valuable to let go. He’s glad, now, that he insisted. Felix would use these to download enemy files, if they couldn’t risk infiltration.

He always hated taking prisoners anyway.

“The tech isn’t too complicated,” Simmons says. “It should start picking things up and transmitting to you right when he accesses his files.”

“Great.”

“You really think he has something about Junior in there?”

Tucker looks up. “Won’t know ‘til we try.” He hands the chip to Simmons. “You keep this. In case you need it.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby.”

“Tucker, this is _illegal._ ”

“Cool. When we get caught, you just tell them I did it. Look, I don’t _care_ if I’m court martialed, if I’m chucked into a cell somewhere. My _kid_ is out there, living a life I don’t know about, trying to talk to me. And everyone keeps _demanding_ I just...live inside this lie. I’m not going to,” Tucker says. “Not anymore.”

Simmons turns the chip over on his finger, inspecting it closely. “This is sketchy shit, Tucker.”

“I know.” Tucker stands. “But the UNSC doesn’t play games,” he says, echoing Kimball.

“So neither can we.”

 

* * *

 

Caboose bursts into Tucker’s room at six in the morning and shouts, “ _Tucker, the trees have leaves!_ ”

Distantly, Grif shouts, “ _What the actual fuck?!_ ” and Tucker rolls out of bed.

When he gets downstairs, Caboose is actively losing his shit, while Kai _rolls_ on the living room floor, clutching her stomach.

“I _can’t!_ ” she says. “Oh god, I _can’t_ with this guy. Tucker. _Tucker!_ Look how happy he is.”

Tucker is still half-asleep, so he’s not expecting Caboose to _pick him up_ and shout, “I can see everything!”

“That’s great, Caboose. Can you put me down now, please?”

Caboose sets him on his feet and does a spin. “This is amazing!”

Tucker goes to the table and picks up a black container holding almost twenty pairs of glasses. “Dr. Lewis sent lots of spares, huh?”

Kai raises a hand. “My idea. Also, the material? Super durable. Almost unbreakable.”

Behind them, something snaps. “... _Tucker did it._ ”

She sighs. “Well. Almost.”

 

* * *

 

“PFC’s Takashi, Jerome, Finnigan, and McNamara, sir. Reporting for duty.”

Tucker frowns. “Kimball said there were eleven of you.”

Jerome glances between the others. “Yes, sir. There were. But now there’s just...the four of us.”

“What, learning to use alien tech’s not exciting enough?”

“....No, it’s not that.”

“Alright, well let’s just go over what you guys know already.” Tucker has a table laid out with several different pieces of alien weaponry. He picks up a pistol and aims it at the target, the pulls the trigger. He’s not a terrible shot, so it hits close enough to the center to be impressive on the fly. “Pick your weapon, show me what you’ve—”

Takashi raises her hand. “Sir, can I ask you a question? Sir?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Are we going to be meeting any aliens?”

Tucker does a double take. “... _What?_ ”

“Aliens. McNamara said—”

“I _didn’t_ fucking say anything!”

“Uh, yeah? You said the captain used to work with aliens, and that he had an alien _baby_ —”

“ _No_ ,” Finnigan cuts in. “It was Hugo, he said that the captain was an alien fucker, and _we_ were all fucking crazy for wanting to even _be_ here—”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Tucker slams the pistol on the table. It goes off, narrowly missing one of the requisition officers coming in with a case of bottled water, who promptly drops it and takes off. “Son of a _bitch._ ” He turns to them. “What did you call me?”

Finnigan’s voice pitches into levels on _dogs_ can hear. “ _Not me,_ sir. It was Hugo—”

“Is Private Hugo _here_ , right now?”

“No, sir,” Jerome says. She tugs on her uniform nervously. “We really wanted to meet you, sir, we were there when you beat Charon, sir. And we just wanted—”

“Does anyone here _actually_ want to learn about these weapons? Or _about_ the sangheili at _all_?” Everyone is silent. Tucker nods. “Yeah.” His sword is on the table with everything else. He picks it up, and extends the energy blade. “You think calling me _alien fucker_ is gonna get me mad?”

“Well...well you do seem a little upset, sir—”

Tucker rounds on them. “I went through ten kinds of _shit_ after I got this sword. And you know what I got from it? Fucking _nothing._ The one thing I did get, they took from me. So if you’re not here to _learn_ , if you’re just here to gossip about something you will _never_ understand, then get the fuck out.” They stand there, staring at him. Tucker growls. “ _Go!_ ” he shouts, brandishing the sword, and they flee. “And if you give a shit about any of this, you’ll be here tomorrow at oh-six-hundred, you fucking understand me?”

“ _Yes, sir!_ ” Takashi shouts.

Tucker turns off the sword and tosses it to the ground.

“ _Pricks._ ”

 

* * *

 

“ _Captain._ ” Wash has been banging down his door for three minutes without stop, so Tucker finally gets out of bed and opens it.

“Jesus, Wash, _what?_ ”

Wash pushes past him. “Did you _threaten_ your recruits with your sword?”

“Are you serious? You have fucking _brain damage_ and can’t remember what you had for _breakfast_ , but you can come into my room at five in the fucking morning and _berate_ me because I don’t wanna be called _alien fucker_ by some punk ass privates?”

Wash stops. “...What did they call you?”

“I had _eleven_ recruits last week. Now I have four because someone’s been calling me _alien fucker_.” Tucker exhales, and it’s like the _bones_ dissolve in his body. He collapses on the edge of his bed and puts his face in his hands. He feels the mattress dip and Wash’s weight lean against him. Tucker breathes, and breathes, and breathes — _and breathes._

Wash says gently. “Hey. I heard you wired Tuthill.”

“Yeah. Probably a waste of time. Finally figured out what you were talking about. All that _make it count_ stuff.”

“That applies here, too, you know.”

Tucker groans and falls back. “Seriously? Can you stop fucking _mentoring me_ for five seconds?”

“No,” Wash says, standing up. “And you have four recruits who probably want to _actually_ learn from you meeting you on base in an hour. So get out of bed and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not ashamed of Junior, are you?”

“ _What?_ No! What the fuck—”

“Then get up, get dressed, and drill those soldiers until they can’t walk.”

Tucker looks up sharply and Wash pulls a face.

“Sorry. Poor word choice.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Takashi, hold that up! Jerome, don’t_ point _that at McNamara, it’s a_ laser _!_ ”

“Sorry, sir!”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

* * *

 

Kimball gives Tucker an office on base and it only takes fifteen minutes for Grif to find it.

“This is a _box._ You don’t even have a window.”

“It’s fine,” Tucker says. He’s sitting on the floor, trying to figure out how to put his office chair together. “Have you seen Caboose? He’s _way_ better at this stuff than me.” He tosses the instructions away. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

“I came here to see the sergeant.”

“Sarge isn’t here.”

“Alright, dumbass, there are _other_ sergeants in the world. Sergeant Rice, he’s the UNSC’s number one down here. Wants to meet me, I guess.”

“What’s that I hear?” Tucker stands. “Are you _volunteering_ to go kiss someone’s ass?”

“I’m not _kissing his_ — you know what? Fuck you. I shouldn’t even _tell you_ what I came down here to say, but Simmons says you weren’t paying attention to your portal and he saw Tuthill accessing his computer last night. Granted, it was to look at _porn_ , but hey.”

“Was it good porn?”

“Dude, I’m not having this conversation with you.” Grif starts backing out of the office. “Just access your portal, alright? And the center screw is under your _desk_!”

Tucker runs after him. “Hey, you can’t just set me up like that! _Bow chicka bow wow!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Tuthill doesn’t access his computer for another couple of days, except, like Grif said, to look at porn, _and_ send an e-mail to his wife, which Tucker thinks he should feel very guilty about.

“Any luck?” Simmons asks, coming into his office. “Also this is—”

“A box, yeah, your boyfriend pointed that out already. Hey, is there a way to get Tuthill’s passwords, stop _choking_ I was kidding about the boyfriend thing. Passwords, can I get them?”

Simmons tugs on the collar of his shirt. “I mean, yes, but not with that microchip patch we gave him. There are a few algorithms we could run, I’m sure I could get a program somewhere, but we’d need access to his computer. Anyway, the _best_ way is to know more about him. People usually make their passwords about things they like. Songs, movies. Grif’s password for like three years was just a different quote from _Die Hard_. Wasn’t hard to guess.”

Tucker scowls. “I don’t want to get to _know_ Tuthill. He’s a sleaze ball, he has three kids and he watches _glory hole_ videos. Like, come on. Even I’m not that gross.” Tucker leans back in his chair. “Okay, so I do what? Take him to lunch? He’s going to see _right_ through that.”

Simmons stands, shrugging. “People like being flattered. Someone like Tuthill? He just wants someone kissing his boots.”

“I _hate_ this conversation.”

“You wanted my advice! I’m just saying. Get on his good side and you might not even _need_ passwords.”

Tucker sighs. “Maybe. _Maybe._ I’ll think about it. Thanks, Simmons. You...didn’t have to do all this. And you did. So. Yeah. Thanks.”

“I’m sorry you keep hitting a wall on this. I know you just want to see your son. I’ll catch you back at the apartment, yeah?”

“Yeah, man. See ya.”

 

* * *

 

Tucker is walking across base with Caboose when he spots Tuthill chatting with a couple of women in Chorus uniforms. It’s gross, and Tucker doesn’t mind interrupting. Guy has a _tan line_ where his wedding ring should be.

“Commander!”

Tuthill glances up and kind of looks like he wants to _wallop_ Tucker, but Tucker’s feeling confident. Walking next to Caboose, who can, and has, thrown a warthog with his bare hands, kind of does that to you.

“Captain Tucker. A pleasure to see you again.”

“Sir, I was hoping to catch you. I’ve got some recruits working with alien weaponry, we thought you might like a demonstration at the end of the week.”

Tuthill sighs and begins heading toward the base exit. “As I understand it, captain, your recruit count has _dwindled._ ”

“Well, sir, it requires a certain amount of confidence to work with alien tech. Not everyone is cut out for it.”

“ _I’m_ very scared,” Caboose says.

Tuthill laughs. “Of course, I’m sure it can be very daunting. Personally I’ve never used them—”

“Well, maybe you’d like to try.”

The commander sighs. It’s a lot like the way Wash sighs, when Tucker just doesn’t seem to pick up what he’s putting down. But there’s no smile, no teasing nudge or endeared eye roll. Wash sighs at him like a brother, like a comrade —

Tuthill sighs at him like a man who likes having his boots kissed.

“Captain, do you know _why_ I’m this unit’s ambassador to the sangheili?”

“Your personnel file says you have extensive experience—”

“Because I hold them at arm’s length. They’re _animals_ , Tucker. And they will always _be_ animals. Even when they have human fathers.”

Tuthill is taller than him. A lot of people are taller than Tucker.

And right now he feels like the smallest person in Chorus.

“My son—”

“Your son is an abomination. I’ve yet to determine what _you_ are, though. I think...oh, what _was_ that phrase I heard the other day? A few young men were talking about you and I stopped to listen.” He taps his chin. Tucker wants to tear his fingers off. “I can’t seem to remember it now, but I’m sure it will come me. Perhaps you can chew on that for a while.” He tips his hat to them. “Lovely running into you gentlemen. Let me know if you’d like to do a late lunch this week.”

Tucker breathes heavy through his nose, watching Tuthill show his ID to the guards on duty.

Caboose leans in close. “I do not like him.”

“No,” Tucker says. “Neither do I.”


	3. an immovable force meets an unstoppable object (simmons)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons becomes unofficial president of the deadbeat dad's club, but only because Carolina is busy. No one makes out with anyone. Sarge moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains mentions of past abuse; also there was a rating change because simmons can't keep it in his sweats.

Simmons woke up this morning at four AM, which is an hour and a half too soon to get the eight hours he’s been _trying_ to maintain since they came back to Chorus. His muscles feel like they’re crawling, nerves feel like they’re shuddering, _bones_ feel like they’re going to splinter —

“ _Fuck_ me,” he mutters, and hooks his thumb around the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging them down. He licks the palm of his hand and wraps it around the base of his cock, stroking it a few times to get it stiff. Simmons closes his eyes, lays on his side and relaxes into it, clearing his mind. It’s been a long week, and it’s only _Wednesday_. He runs his cyborg hand through his hair and picks up the pace.

The stress falls off in waves. It’s clinical, at this point. Habitual. He doesn’t even _have_ that much to be stressed over, but his body wakes up each morning and short circuits until he can calm himself down. Grif had suggested jerking off years ago, when Simmons was trying to manage it with push ups in their old red base, so he —

“Ah, _shit_ —” Shouldn’t have thought of Grif, bad move to think of Grif because now the last time he walked in on Grif showering after an hour in the weight room comes back full force and _slams_ him in the dick, like some kind of twisted, revenge porno _Simmons_ starring in.

Doesn’t hurt, though. It’s pretty easy to think about Grif’s tongue on his neck, or his mouth on Simmons’ balls. Easy to think about grinding into Grif’s hand, twisting the hair he refuses to cut, dark curls that would stand out against his pale fingers.

It’s easy to say his name, a rushed and desperate, “ _Grif_ ,” on an exhale, floating like a ghost in the dark of his room.

Simmons rolls to his back and groans. Would Grif ride him, the first time they fucked? Simmons is strong, he could do it. But maybe he’d like it to be him, to arch his back, or lean forward and grip Grif’s shoulders _tight._ Or maybe he’d want to be on his knees, or bent over something, just so he could get _Grif’s_ hands in _his_ hair because _fuck_ he wants him to pull it, to jerk his head back and drag his teeth across the back of his neck while he _pounds_ —

“ _Shit—_ ” Simmons comes, jerking his hips up as it hits his stomach and chest. He gets up, going into the bathroom and wiping himself off with a towel. Too early to be up. He rolls his left shoulder, touching the seam between his cyborg arm and the freckled skin of his chest. It feels better since Grey replaced some of the wiring and redid the casing. Simmons reaches around behind his shoulder and presses the release. He groans and eases the arm off and onto the counter.

In the shower he gets himself off again, doesn’t even bother not trying to think of Grif this time.

 

* * *

“Good morning, captain!”

“Morning, Ashley. Any messages?” Simmons stops by his assistant’s desk.

“Yes! Corporal Groom wants to talk to you—”

“I’m avoiding him. Please tell him I’m out.”

Ashley frowns. “...All week?”

“All week.”

She sighs. “Alright. Um, Kimball wants to know if you’ll be wiring the tram station this week, and Agent Washington wants to know if you’d have your lunch with him on base today.”

Simmons frowns. “Interesting. Okay. Let him know—”

She hands him the messages. “You also have a video message from your father.”

Simmons crumples the paper in his cyborg hand and looks at her sharply. “What?”

“Your father? He called this morning and insisted I forward him to your portal.” She smiles. “Is that...not alright?”

“What? No! No, it’s fine. It’s _fine_ , it’s _totally_ fine—” He swallows, but his throat is completely dry. “Thank you, Ashley. Um, carry on.”

“...Okay?” She turns her chair back toward her computer as the phone rings.

Simmons goes into his office and shuts the door, leaning heavily against it.

It’s a mistake, he decides. Ashley’s nice, but she’s made her first mistake, and that’s normal. He’ll just tell her to take better notes next time, be extra sure when someone calls, because there’s no way it’s his father, there’s no way his father even knows where he _is_.

He goes to his desk and opens his portal — and there’s a video message, blinking at him, demanding his attention.

“A _mistake_ ,” he mutters. “I’m not doing this. I’m not opening this.” He closes the portal down and picks up the phone to call Kimball and reassure her about the tram station.

 

* * *

 

Wash doesn’t want to have lunch just to chat. He has a recruit he’s training who’s been trying to adapt to one of Grey’s prosthetics.

“Left arm, like yours.”

“I’ve had this arm for almost ten years.”

“ _Which_ means you’ve had a lot of time to get used to it, I know.” Wash spears his salad with his fork. “But it also means you have a lot of tips to offer. Her name is Elizabeth—”

Simmons groans. “A girl, seriously?”

“Simmons, you have _got_ to get over this girl thing, alright? You’re, what, thirty?”

“Thirty-one.”

Wash sighs. “She’s a good kid, a _great_ soldier. And she needs help I can’t give her. Will you at least give it a try?”

“...Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Great.” Wash smiles and takes out his notebook, jotting down a few things.

Simmons raises a brow. “You write like a fifteen year old boy.”

Wash snaps the book shut. “What a _fun_ conversation. How’s work?”

“Fine. Keeps me busy.”

“You and Grif really impressed Kimball last week, when you showed her that tram station design.”

Simmons nods. “She’s a little obsessed with it now.”

“It’s a centerpiece for the rebuilding effort. She’s right to put focus on it.”

A few of Wash’s troops walk by to say hello while they eat. Simmons watches him talk to them, watches how they react. He thinks Wash might be a good dad, if it were ever in the cards, and he wonders —

“What was your father like?”

Wash chokes on his salad for a second, takes a long drink of water. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your dad. What was he like?”

“Uh, well he _is_ a philosophy professor. UC Berkeley.”

“Must have been interesting.”

“It was fine. He’s a good dad, if that’s what you’re wondering. Took me to soccer games, came to parent-teacher night. He and my mom divorced when I was five. I don’t think she could take the philosophizing. But they stayed friends. He’s even golf buddies with my step-father.”

“Right. So...all around cool guy.”

Wash nods. “Sure. Why do you ask?”

Simmons shrugs and stands. “No reason. Have Elizabeth call my secretary. I’ll meet her whenever she wants.”

 

* * *

 

The shitty thing is he can access his portal from basically anywhere, so he could, theoretically, do so while he’s on site at the tram station, watching Grif shout down a pale faced architect because he didn’t have enough to eat for breakfast.

“Seriously! No one here has met Donut, these color schemes are ugly as shit.”

“Please stop shouting at people who shouldn’t be punished because you had two bowls of cereal instead of your usual three.”

Grif scowls. “It’s not my _fault_ that _Caboose_ doesn’t understand portion control.”

“He unlearned it from you. Can you lay off? This is fine.”

“ _We_ are going to _embarrass_ ourselves at this meeting next month.”

Simmons pinches the bridge of his nose. They have a meeting with Kimball, Sergeant Rice, and a few other CO’s in a few weeks to try and get funding for the tram, and to prove they’re not complete imbeciles like most of the UNSC _thinks._

It’s proving difficult.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you need to _relax_ , Grif.”

“I refuse, you can’t boss me around, and you’re not my dad so stop _Sarging_ me.”

Simmons’ entire _body_ twitches.

Grif notices.

“Dude, what’s _wrong_ with you?”

“Hm? Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine, and I have to go to my office. I have to...do some stuff.”

“No.” Grif sidesteps him, blocking the path. “You’re being weird, spill it.”

Simmons grits his teeth. “It’s _nothing_.”

Grif raises a brow, and Simmons groans.

“ _Fine._ My dad figured out where I am and left me a video message. It’s giving me anxiety _so poisonous_ I think the stress is bleeding through my _shirt._ Am I leaking? I feel like I’m _leaking._ ”

“ _Ugh_ , gross. You’re not _leaking_ , you’re overreacting.”

“Oh, _am I?_ ”

Grif sighs. “Alright, _fine._ So we both...need to take it down a few notches. We’re stressed.” He pulls a face. “I cannot believe I am _stressed_ about _work_ I am volunteering to do. God, is this what it’s like being you?”

“Not even close. I need to get out of here, it’s so fucking hot. Does Chorus have seasons? I don’t feel like I noticed last time.”

“It does, it’s almost summer. Come on, we’re going to get a drink.”

“ _What?!_ ” Simmons looks at his watch. “It’s _noon._ ”

“Fine, I won’t get mimosas. Let’s go.”

They wind up at a bar close to base, so it’s kind of infested with UNSC, but they get a table and a couple of beers while Simmons explains.

“My dad—”

“Is a shithead. We’ve gone over this part. Why are you afraid of him? You’re a soldier and he’s a tax attorney. That’s, like, the least threatening kind of lawyer you can be.”

Simmons takes the beer when it comes and drains half in one go.

Grif raises a brow. “Dude—”

“My dad _hit me_. Okay? Before my mom left him, that’s...that’s how it was. And I have spent every day since then trying _not_ to be afraid of him. That’s why I left home, that’s why I _joined_ the army. Because I needed a way to be brave and I...I needed to put several planets between us.”

Grif tips his head to the side. Simmons’ gut twists because this was a mistake, right? It was too much, he shouldn’t have said it, but sometimes Grif looks at him and his expression is fucking _good_ and fucking _open_ and Simmons wants to tell him that sometimes he touches his dick and says Grif’s name between gritted teeth while hot water pours over his shoulders —

“If you saw him it’d take you right back, wouldn’t it?”

Simmons relaxes.

“...Yeah.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling. We need more beer.” He finishes his and flags down the server. “I took care of Kai for most of high school without anyone knowing. When my mom rolled back into town, it was like being thirteen again.” The server comes to the table. “Hey, we’re reliving childhood memories, so can we get something stronger than a Chorusian Coors knockoff? Thanks.”

“I can’t watch that video. What would he have to say anyway?”

“Maybe he’s sorry.”

“Don’t care.”

“Maybe he has childhood photos of you.”

“I keep those in a safe deposit box in Soho where my mom died.”

“Maybe he’s dying.”

“He can do it and then rot in hell.” The server sets down two glasses of whiskey. Simmons picks it up and downs it in one go. “This has been productive. I’m going to my office.”

Grif tries to snag him, but Simmons is quick. And tipsy, so he stumbles right into an officer.

“Hey! _Watch it_ , sim.”

Grif stands. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me, fatass.”

“Yeah, that was a clarifying question. I heard you, _asshole_.”

The officer gives Simmons a shove and he stumbles into Grif.

“Tell your friend to hold his liquor, or he’s gonna lose another fuckin’ arm.”

Simmons growls. He swings his cyborg arm without thought and grabs the officer by the collar, pinning him to the wall.

“Tear it off,” he says. “I can do more with one arm than you’ve ever done with your _whole body_.”

Grif groans. “Dude, _word choice._ And get off of him! He’s a fucking _Lance Corporal_ , don’t waste your time.” Grif pulls him off. “Come on, this is stupid.”

Simmons lets Grif drag him out of the bar. “Get _off_ me!”

“Dude, you’re letting him get in your _head_ , and he’s not even here!”

“Fuck you, you don’t know how this feels.”

“Fuck _you_ , you’re better than him. And you’re better than _this._ ”

Simmons shoves past him. “Whatever, I have work to do.”

“You need to watch the video so you can stop torturing yourself over this.”

Simmons stops. He could say more. He could _do more_ — but he doesn’t want to yell at his best friend. He doesn’t want to make this worse.

He says, “I’ll see you later, Grif,” and walks away.

 

* * *

 

Simmons _doesn’t_ see Grif later. He avoids him for three days, pretends he doesn’t have work to do on the tram station, and meets with Elizabeth. She’s a nice girl, a good soldier — but she’s deeply uncomfortable with her arm, and it shows.

“It says here you got a perfect score on the obstacle course.”

“Wasn’t hard.”

“They never are,” Simmons says, and she grins. “So...the arm throws you off, huh?”

“It’s weird.”

“Yeah. Grey’s good though, right?”

“Grey didn’t make it, one of her new docs did. She fixed yours though, didn’t she?”

“She did.”

“Yeah. Woman’s got a gift. A weird...creepy gift. But a gift.”

Simmons looks out on the obstacle course. “Let’s have you do this. Agent Carolina built it, so it’s _actually_ a challenge.”

Elizabeth nods. “I fucking love her.”

“Yeah, she’s...she’s pretty great.” Simmons pulls out a stopwatch. “Alright. Let’s see you do this in...I dunno, three minutes?”

Elizabeth grins. “You’re on, captain.”

 

* * *

 

Simmons doesn’t see Carolina much. She has a place with them, she trains in their gym, but she and Wash are giving each other space...which for some reason translates into Simmons not seeing her at all. He doesn’t understand that. He tracks her down eventually, doing weight training in the gym downstairs. Simmons honestly has no idea what Carolina’s been up to since they came back to Chorus. Kimball dodges the question, Wash can’t remember, and Grif doesn’t care enough to help.

But she seems happy, so Simmons doesn’t feel so bad when he sits next to her on the bench and asks, “Did you hate your dad?”

Carolina pulls her hair from its tie. “Sorry?”

“Your dad, the Director. Did you hate him?”

“Yes, Simmons. Sometimes I hated him.”

“No, like. Like _all_ the time.”

She sighs. “No, Simmons. I did not hate my dad _all_ the time.”

“Why not? He was terrible to you, he betrayed your trust and used you and hurt your friends and _ruined_ your life—”

“Stop.” She puts her hand over his, which is trembling in his lap. “Grif told me—”

“He _what?!_ ” Simmons stands. “That _fucking_ —”

“He _told_ me that your dad sent you a message. That’s it.” She angles herself toward him. “Look, I get why you’d come to me. But I can’t tell you what to do.”

“But if _your_ dad—”

“If you _never_ watch that message, would you be able to keep going?”

Simmons sighs. “...Yeah. I’d be fine.”

“And if you _do_ watch it, can he reach through and stop you from living your life?”

“...No. He can’t.”

Carolina nods. “I know it’s not easy. Forgiving people, moving on. It’s hard. And no one is saying you _have_ to forgive him. But it’s your life. And if you watch that video, it’ll _still_ be your life. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Hey, it’s good to talk to you. Feels like we haven’t seen you lately.”

“I know.” She nudges him with her shoulder. “But I’ll be around more soon. When I’m done with something.”

“Secret project?”

Carolina laughs. “Yeah. Secret project. Now get out of here, I’m not done.” She stands and moves toward one of the machines while Simmons heads back upstairs and into the kitchen.

Caboose and Kai are making cookie dough while Kai talks about her shift at the hospital.

Simmons turns as Kai says, “Caboose, try this,” and just _watches_ while she puts two fingers into Caboose’s mouth.

“It’s good.”

“Yeah? You sure?”

“...More chocolate chips.”

Kai nods. “Yep. More chocolate ships.”

Simmons twists off the cap of a bottle of tea. “What are you guys doing?”

“Baking,” Caboose says, pushing his sliding glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What are _you_ doing?”

“Talking to Carolina. _Was_ talking to Carolina.” Simmons takes a long drink. Caboose and Kai turn their backs to him again. “...Okay then.” Simmons takes his drink up to his room and shuts the door behind him. “Sheila, where’s Grif?”

“ _Captain Grif is in his room._ ”

“What about Sarge?”

“ _The Colonel just finished moving his belongings onto the base._ ”

“Okay, can you—” Simmons stops. “He’s doing _what?_ ”

 

* * *

 

“You shouldn’t be surprised,” Donut says. He, Grif, and Simmons are getting drinks and collectively sulking. “You remember when we were all back together? After we found you guys?”

“We found _you_.”

Donut shrugs. “Same difference.”

“Yeah, I know what you’re trying to say,” Simmons says. “Sarge couldn’t stand our quarters. He said they were too pedestrian.”

“It may as well have been a _hotel_ , were his exact words.” Donut pushes the ice around in his glass. “He just...hasn’t felt at home since we moved there. I mean, have either of you talked to him?”

“He...came by my office,” Simmons says, thinking on it now. “Two days ago. Said he wanted to talk, but I got like three calls and had to calm Kimball down about the station again. Then he just...disappeared.”

Grif nods. “Did the same thing to me, yesterday.”

“And me,” Donut says. “We managed to talk for a minute, but I had a meeting.”

“Jesus Christ.” Grif scrubs a hand over his face. “Fucking _look at us._ We’re like Sarge’s worst nightmare at this point. Would you want to live in the apartment? A kitchen, working toilet, _Blues._ ”

“I can’t believe we did that to him,” Simmons mutters, and finishes off his Jack and coke. “We’re the fucking worst.”

“We should go see him on base tomorrow,” Donut suggests. “The three of us. We’ll have lunch in the mess and have him show us what he’s up to. He’d probably feel a lot better if we did!”

“Is he feeling bad?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just assumed.”

Grif sighs. “I kinda miss being threatened. _Kind_ of,” he adds. “I could live without it.” They finish their drinks and migrate away from the table. “So we’ll meet up tomorrow and go see Sarge then.”

“Yeah, I think he’d like that. Seemed like he had something to tell us,” Donut says.

Simmons steps out behind them and breathes. He spent more than ten years wishing Sarge would think of him as a son, and now he turns around and treats him like...treats him like —

“Hey, I’ve...gotta go to my office.”

Grif turns. “Why?”

“Something I have to do. Something...I should do.”

“You can’t do it at home?”

Simmons shrugs. “I could. But I don’t want to.”

“Alright.” Grif reaches out and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll see you back home then.”

“Night!” Donut calls, and they cross the street together.

Simmons watches them for a bit before heading up the sidewalk to the capitol building. He leans against the wall of the elevator once he’s inside and closes his eyes.

Sometimes he really misses Blood Gulch.

The doors open to his floor and he keys himself into his office before going to his desk and sitting in front of his computer. The message still blinks at him and, for a few minutes, he thinks about what Grif said. How he was letting his dad get into his head, how he’s _better_ than all this.

Simmons thinks about Carolina, too. He thinks about the fact that he could go his whole life without watching this, she’s absolutely right.

But...he wants to.

Simmons doesn’t think about his mom a lot — she died when he was sixteen and he lived with his aunt Ruth until college. He joined up after graduation for a lot of reasons, but it wasn’t just about putting planets between him and his dad. It was about putting planets and light years and _actual years_ between himself and the place and time where his mother died. Because she told him for years his intelligence was a gift, that his father was wrong to put him down for it.

But she never said a bad word about him. Simmons doesn’t find that especially honorable, in retrospect. His mother had no angles, no sharp edges to cut against. She was soft and good and she’d tell him to open this message. Not because she believed Simmons’ father deserved it, or that he had anything good to say — but because she believed it was always _best_ to be the better person.

No matter how much it hurt.

So Simmons opens it and hits play, before he can walk away again.

 

* * *

 

_Took me a while to find you._

_I know you probably don’t want anything to do with me, and I can’t say I blame you. But I think about your mother all the time, and how she’d be broken up over me not settin’ myself on the straight and narrow. She was a good woman, your mother. Better than I deserved. You needed her, you know. You needed someone who’d be soft on you. I always thought you needed someone to be hard on you, too, but I think that’s just something I carried with me from my own old man._

_You remember your grandfather? You met him when you were about two for the first time. Last time you saw him you were eight. He didn’t care much for you. Liked your cousin better. Said Paul was a proper grandson, and a proper Simmons._

_S’probably a good thing he’s dead. A proper Simmons isn’t supposed to get sick either. Your grandfather died in his sleep, the way you’re supposed to go, I guess. But all my bad choices are catchin’ up with me, bud. Been sick for a while. Death’s comin’. I figured it might happen this way. Took me some time to get there, but. Hey. What can you do, huh?_

_Richard, I don’t wanna die alone. I know you’d prefer it that way. I know it’s probably what you dream about when you think of me, but I’ve spent the last year trying to figure out where you were and now I’ve tracked you down. What the fuck kind of a place is Chorus, huh? You better not have gotten yourself caught up in a civil war, Rich. That’s some buillshit if you ask me._

_I s’pose you’re safe. You were a smart kid. I shouldn’t have done what I did because of it. Shouldn’t have asked you to be someone you weren’t._

_I should have loved you, I guess is what I’m trying to say. And I know my dad not loving me isn’t a good excuse. Your mom’s folks weren’t exactly parents of the year either and look how she turned out._

_Fuckin’ angel._

_Listen if you get this, if you even decide to listen to this, you should just know...I’d like to see you. Just...one last time. I’d like to see your face. I’ll get it, if you don’t feel the same. I’ll understand if you never call back. But you should just now...I’m sorry. You’re my son. You’re my boy. I’m all you’ve got left, bud._

_And I just wanna see you one more time._

 

* * *

 

Grif’s still up when he gets back, so Simmons knocks and then goes in.

“I could have been jackin’ it,” Grif says, looking up from his computer.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Grif snorts and closes his laptop as Simmons sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s up?”

“Listened to the message.”

“Yeah?” Grif moves to the bed next to him. “How was that?”

“Well. He’s dying.”

“Did you call him back? Tell him to do it and then rot in hell?”

Simmons sighs. “I regret _most_ conversations we have, did you know that?

“Nah, you love it.”

Simmons falls back on the bed. Closes his eyes. “He said...that he was all I had left. I think he kind of meant that _we_ were all the two of us had left, but I don’t know.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I guess. He is my only family.”

“No, he’s not. You have a different family. And this is one you got to pick, so that makes it, like, ten times better than whatever he thinks he is.”

Simmons shrugs. “He’s my dad.”

“And he _sucks_ at that job.” Grif lays down next to him. “You know there are people here who love you. In, like, a platonic, familial way. I mean someone might be in love with you. Your assistant, maybe.”

“Ashley’s a lesbian, Grif. She talks about her girlfriend almost non-stop.”

“Well see? _I_ didn’t _know that._ ”

Simmons laughs and he feels Grif’s hand nudge his on the bed in between them. It’d be easy to hold it, but they both move apart at the same time.

“So he wants to see you, huh?”

Simmons nods. “Yeah. Not sure what I’m gonna do just yet.”

“I’d say you have time, but.” Simmons elbows Grif in his side and he rolls away. “Alright, this is my room, get out if you’re just here to abuse me.”

Simmons laughs and sits up. This is...a great moment, he realizes. He’s going to remember this, for a long time. Because Grif is laughing, too, and he’s looking at him and he’s smiling, and the message and his father are far away. They’re going to go see Sarge tomorrow, they’re going to be a team again tomorrow, and Grif’s hand is very close and his shirt is riding up and Simmons knows if he reaches out to touch it, if he leans down to kiss the oldest friend he has —

Grif will kiss him back. He can _feel that_ , in this moment.

He stands though, because right now...isn’t right. And he might be wrong about that later, he might look back and regret the choice to get up, say goodnight, and go to his room —

But he closes his eyes and the feeling of looking at someone and kind of loving them and knowing they kind of love you back, without ever having to say it, carries him to sleep.


	4. delicate (donut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut fields second chances. Chorus takes a hit.

Donut would never call President Kimball difficult to work with.

Not to her face, at least.

But getting things done for her reminds Donut an awful lot of the time he worked at the print center on campus, and people would ask for their posters and projects to be printed with basically zero written or verbal instructions. Kimball is a great leader, a wonderful soldier, a woman with class and taste, for the most part —

But she is a _terrible_ client.

“President Kimball says the uniforms need to be more modern,” says his assistant Olivia. She perches on the corner of his desk, scrolling through memos on her tablet. “But also classic.”

“Did she say which _elements_ of the uniforms should be more modern?”

“ _No._ Just...more modern. But also more classic.”

“Perfect.” Donut leans back in his chair. “I can’t wait to work on this for six more weeks.”

“You know she’s probably totally forgotten the old ones you liked so much.” Olivia shrugs. “We could just give her those this afternoon, see if she notices.”

Donut _loves_ Olivia. She has a creative spirit, an eye for design, and a bit of a mischievous streak. She’s quiet and reserved most days, but excitable and chatty when she needs to be. She fields phone calls with an expert hand, turns away unwanted visitors, and cannot be charmed by a single soul.

Except for Agent Washington, for whom she nurses a deep and burning desire.

It’s really just Donut’s luck. The one person on Chorus he _doesn’t_ want in his office and his assistant is fucking gaga over him. It couldn’t have been Caboose, or Simmons, or even _Sarge_ — it had to be Wash.

But Olivia is still a professional. So when Donut tells her to take her crush, fold it up, and put that shit _away_ , she listens. She complains about it, but she listens.

“He called this morning, you know.”

“Did he now?” Donut flips through his book of designs and finds one of the old ones. Kimball’s difficult, not stupid, but she’s also insanely busy. He could probably pass these off as new, to have more time on something better. If she doesn’t _shoot him_ first.

“Should I tell him you’re not interested?”

“Yep. Just like you have the last three times.”

Oliva sets the tablet down. “Alright. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Don’t you have a phone to answer?”

“Nuh-uh. We aren’t getting into a sass off.” Olivia grabs a chair and pulls it toward him. “Spill it, I wanna know _everything._ ”

Donut sighs. “It’s not important. I just don’t...need this. Right now.” Oliva raises a brow. “Look, Wash and I...had an incident. And I’m just not totally over it.” He glances at her. “That’s _it_.”

Olivia sighs. “Alright, fine. I will drop it and tell Agent Washington to leave you alone and start calling _my_ number instead.” She grins and gets up from the chair. “Anything else you need from me today?”

“No, no thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Kimball looks over the designs and nods. “I like these.”

“ _Do you?_ ” Donut feels like his _nerves_ are going to start backfiring up his spine and into his brain, he _cannot_ believe this is working.

“I do. I’m sure we can find some improvements, but it’ll have to wait until the end of the week.” Kimball scrubs a hand over her face. “Thank you, Donut. For doing this.”

“Of course!” He leans back and relaxes. “I like it. And I’m glad to help.”

“That’s good. Really. And I promise you it’s not going unnoticed. I’ve seen you trying. You’re as capable as I thought your friends could be when I first met them. So thank you, again.”

“Sure.” Donut picks up his notes. “I’ll check in with you next week.”

Donut leaves her office and heads toward the elevator, thumbing the button more times than strictly necessary. He’s making a mental list of everything he needs to get finished today before going home, so he’s not really paying attention when the elevator doors open —

And he smacks right into Tucker and Wash.

Tucker grins. “Hey, Donut. How go the designs?”

“Fine.” Donut rubs his chest. “How goes the alien tech training?”

“Fucking _awesome._ Showing Kimball some videos _now._ ”

“Good for you.”

Tucker grins and claps Donut on the shoulder before moving past him.

“Kept it open,” Wash says and Donut sees his foot in front of the door.

“...Thanks.”

“Hey, your assistant’s been giving me the runaround, I wanted to know if we could grab a beer this week.”

“Kind of busy,” Donut says, stepping onto the elevator. “I played a trick on Kimball she’s going to see through in about twelve hours, so I need a backup design ready before she chews my head off. But after, I’ll give you a call.”

Wash pulls his foot back. “Yeah. I’m...sure you will.”

“ _Wash let’s go!_ ”

“Tucker needs you.”

Wash looks down the hall, but by the time he turns back, the door is shutting, and Donut can finally breathe.

 

* * *

 

It’s not that he hates Wash. Donut doesn’t really _hate_ anyone. Hate is an excessively strong emotion that should be reserved for the foulest of folks, the worst the world has to offer, and eclairs that don’t have filling, because that’s a _lie_ and lying is terrible

Wash is a good guy, he’s proved that time and time again.

But Wash _shot him_ , and sometimes that just gets him _mad_ — because Wash shot him, and didn’t say he was sorry. And it might seem stupid, it might seem childish, but Donut thinks you should apologize for things like that.

Of course the door is closed on that particular venture. It’s too little too late and Donut doesn’t feel like having a beer, or having breakfast, or whatever it is Wash thinks is _enough_ to get them to cross this hurdle together.

Everyone thinks he’s something he’s not.

Everyone thinks he isn’t strong enough, smart enough, _brave_ enough.

What about petty enough? You think after he _dies_ , and _never_ forgives Wash — you think he’ll finally be _enough_ of something for them?

That’s the idea, he thinks, and rolls over in bed that night, and sleeps just fine.

 

* * *

 

Kimball does _not_ notice the recycled designs, but Donut does feel a little guilty and has Olivia send her something a little fresher later that week. Donut studied the human body and the way it moves, which is something his mother told him would never get him a job. She was right about that on Earth, and in the middle of podunk Iowa, but if she could see him now.

Sometimes he misses his mom. They were close until the day he left. Things just...sort of fell apart, after that. The farm was a good place to grow up, but it wasn’t a place where Donut could _stay._

He thinks she’d be happy to hear from him, at some point, but he ran off like a coward, and he has nothing to say to her.

It’s too little too late for _his_ apologies, too.

“Sir? It’s...pretty late.” Olivia leans against the door frame. “Maybe you should head home?”

“You go on. I’m gonna finish up here.”

“Donut, sir—”

“Hey.” He points with his pen. “ _You_ are stellar. And you’ve earned a couple of days off. Take a long weekend!”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.” Donut tosses the pen onto the desk. “Kimball’s crazy busy, she’s not even thinking of us right now. You take some days, I’ll take some days, we’ll be super jazzed on Monday.”

Olivia smiles. “Alright. Take it easy.”

Donut watches her go, then looks back at his notes. He has a lot more work he could do, but the idea of going home, getting up late in the morning, and then doing _nothing_ the rest of the day is way too good. He grabs his jacket and hits the lights.

Outside he can see them working on the new tram into the night. It’s coming along pretty well, but he knows thinking about it gives Grif hives and makes Simmons start hyperventilating. Still, they should be proud of their work. They’ve really proven themselves. That’s all Sarge would talk about at breakfast the week before, how they’ve proven themselves as soldiers and men. How he never could have imagined this kind of life for them.

He didn’t say he was proud, but Donut could feel it. Felt like there were other things he wanted to say, too. But Donut doesn’t expect Sarge to wear his heart on his sleeve.

He should cook dinner for him, and for everyone, he thinks.

Even Washington.

He’s thinking about potential recipes as he unlocks the door to the main floor. It’s dark, which is kind of weird. Usually a few people are up — Kai likes watching TV, Doc likes reading journals in one of the armchairs, and Caboose likes trying to convince them to make s’mores in the fireplace that Tucker is pretty sure doesn’t work.

And then the lights come on —

“ _Surprise!_ ”

“Holy shit!” Donut stumbles back, dropping his keys. Doc swoops in and picks them up, then wraps him in a hug. “What the hell you guys?”

“Congratulations!” Doc pulls back and grins.

“On _what?_ ”

“Your promotion.” Simmons hands him a tablet and he reads the email.

“...Promoted to captain? Like you guys?”

“Like us,” Grif says. “You earned it. Kimball’s been waiting to do this for _weeks._ ”

Donut glances at the message. “It says here Caboose is—”

Tucker drains his champagne. “Oh, oh shit! He’s here! Sheila hit the lights again!” The apartment goes dark and they hear Caboose fumbling with the lock.

“Ah boy,” he mutters, coming inside. “Dark again. Who—”

“ _Surprise!_ ”

“ _Oh my god!_ ” Caboose slams the door and the entire _wall_ rattles. “What is going on?”

“ _You got promoted!_ ” Kai runs up and throws her arms around him. She’s a good foot and a half shorter so she hangs off his neck. “You’re gonna be a Colonel!”

“I’m what?”

“Kimball’s promoting you and Donut,” Wash says. He hands Caboose a champagne flute. “She sent us an email, told us to tell you. There’s going to be a ceremony on Sunday morning.” Wash glances at Donut. “Congratulations. You’ve both earned it.”

Kai chants, “Colonel, colonel, colonel—” and Caboose grabs Donut and hugs him.

“Congratulations, Donut.”

Donut lets Caboose squeeze him. “Yeah. You, too, buddy.”

“Sheila!” Tucker pops the cork on another bottle. “Turn up the _music!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Donut appreciates the party, but Wash keeps throwing him off this week and it’s starting to exhaust him. He escapes up the stairs with a bottle of wine and drinks it while leaning against the balcony outside his room. He kind of expects it when Doc finds him — they’re good friends, after all this time. At least, Donut hopes that. He knows Doc’s been through some stuff, that he’s not always himself. But tonight, he seems happy.

“What are you running from?” he asks gently. “You’ve been kind of weird this week.”

Donut shakes his head. “It’s just Wash.”

“Ah.”

“Oh, don’t _ah_ me, mister. You know why I feel the way I feel.”

“I do.” Doc wiggles his fingers and Donut hands him the bottle. “But I _don’t_ know why you’re giving him the silent treatment.”

Donut huffs. “I _spoke_ to him this week, okay? A few words.”

“He’s trying to tell you he’s sorry.”

“Well...well it’s too late for that.”

“Is it though? I feel like it’s really never too late for sorries and forgiveness. I mean you apologized to me! And I forgave _you!_ ”

“Yeah, but I’ve known you for years.”

“Okay. Technically you’ve known Wash now for years.”

Donut grabs the bottle back. “I do not have to forgive him, okay? I am allowed to carry this forever. I’m a Donut. We...hold grudges. It’s a thing.”

Doc pulls a face. “That’s unhealthy.”

“ _You’re_ unhealthy.”

“Very mature, Franklin.”

“Oh, screw you, DuFresne.”

The world is quiet — and then they laugh.

Donut passes him the bottle again. “God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Doc takes a long drink. “Hey, congrats, alright? You’ve earned this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He swings the bottle back and forth. “You have.”

Donut sighs. “Well. Maybe I’ll...have a beer with him. He asked me, you know.”

“That’s good! You can do that. Set your own ground rules, he’ll follow them.”

Donut nods. “I guess I could.”

“You absolutely could. You’re amazing, D. You can do this.”

“Yeah. Yeah! I can do this. I can...I can move past this. We don’t have to be _best friends_ or whatever. But...but we could get along.”

“Definitely. Now, when you tell him, you—”

Under them, the slider to the other balcony opens and Kai stumbles out, laughing, with Caboose right behind her. The door closes, and they both pitch against the balcony, giggling.

“I can’t believe Tucker drank _all of it!_ ”

“Tucker is kind of stupid.”

Kai swats at him. “Stop that. He’s nice.”

“You’re just saying that because you _did_ it.”

“Half did it,” she corrects. “Well. He thinks we did it. It’s very complicated, it was weird.” She takes a swig from a bottle and passes it to him. “Ugh, _dude._ You’re getting _promoted._ That’s so cool. It’s kinda hot.”

“Is it? I really can’t tell what’s hot anymore. You confuse me.”

“That’s _me_ ,” she croons. “A mystery wrapped in an enigma. _Wooo…_ ” She waves her hands in his face and Caboose snorts, pushing them down. “Hey, I’m serious though.” She leans close. “It’s way cool you got promoted. You should have your mom there.”

“Oh. Well. I don’t think that’s really necessary.”

“Nah, it totally is!”

“It’s on Sunday—”

“She could get here _so fast._ Kimball could make it happen. For Donut, too.”

Caboose sighs. Donut takes the bottle from Doc so they don’t see it and sets it gently on the ground.

“I don’t know where my mom _is_ ,” he says.

“Oh.” Kai pulls back, leaning against the railing. “Well. We could find her. It’d be like a fun project we could do together.”

“It’s...kind of complicated.”

“Caboose, it’s your _mom._ Okay? She loves you, you told me that. It can’t be complicated. It’s...it’s just as easy as—” She stops. Donut can’t see too well now, but when he tips his head he can see her pressed close to him, his broad hands on her arms, holding her to his chest.

“It’s as easy as this,” she murmurs. “As...being friends with you.”

Donut hears Caboose exhale, long and low. “Yes,” he says. “Being your friend is...is very easy.”

“Yep.” Kai unwinds herself from his grip. “Friends. Super easy.” She takes the bottle and drains it. “I’m, uh. I’m super drunk.”

“You are.”

“Yeah. Just...totally gone.”

“Totally.”

She takes a breath. “You wanna get us more wine?”

Caboose sighs. “Sure,” he says, and goes back inside.

Donut cringes and pulls Doc off the balcony.

“ _Well_.” Doc carefully closes the slider. “At least you’re not having _that_ problem.”

 

* * *

 

Caboose looks really good in his uniform, pressed and starched and a rich, navy blue. Sarge is _absolutely_ grumbling that Marine blues don’t have enough red on them, but he’s far away from the stage, so Donut mostly has to infer his frustration through his three separate facial expressions.

“You look super nice,” Caboose stage whispers. His hat is crooked, so Donut fixes it.

“Thanks, Caboose! You do, too.”

“Are my glasses clean?”

“Very.”

“Great!” Caboose straightens as Kimball motions for them to step onto the stage.

“Today we honor two true heroes in the war that won us the life we live today. Though they began as enemies, years ago, today they are brothers in arms. They have both contributed to Chorus’ effort to rebuild, and are deeply loved by the people of this planet. Private Franklin Donut, and Captain Michael Caboose.”

A few moments later, when Kimball pins the medal on his jacket, Donut looks into the crowd — he sees his team, dressed for the occasion. He sees Wash clapping respectfully. He sees Tucker and Kaikaina, who are _absolutely_ trashed. It’s endearing, he supposes.

And then he remembers that night, how Kai had told Caboose his mother needed to be there. That Donut’s could have been there, too.

And suddenly all he wants to do is get away from this. He told Doc he’d make things right with Wash. Maybe he needs to make things right all around.

They’d been told to follow a certain protocol by a very stiff woman before they’d gone onstage. Hugging is definitely not allowed, but Caboose turns and wraps his arms around Donut and _lifts_ him.

“I’m very happy for us,” he says.

“ _Me, too_ ,” Donut wheezes. “ _Please put me down. I love you, but please._ ”

Caboose drops him. “You love me?”

“Well, yeah, Caboose. We’re family.”

Donut imagines that might have made someone else smile. He could have easily imagined it making _Caboose_ smile.

It doesn’t.

Instead, it seems to make him incredibly sad.

“Oh, Caboose—”

“Kai was right,” he says. “I...I should have—”

“ _Get offstage!_ ” the woman whisper-shouts. “ _You’re making fools of yourselves!_ ” A UNSC officer ushers them away.

Caboose yanks off his hat and starts crumpling it in his hands. “I made a mistake. I made a terrible mistake—”

“Caboose—”

“Of course you’re my family,” he says, grabbing Donut’s hand. “Of course you are. But we have other families and maybe we’ll never see them again. Donut, maybe we made the worst choice.”

“You didn’t,” Donut says. “And it’s never too late to make it right.”

“...It isn’t?”

Donut shakes his head. “No. No, of course not.” He sighs and pulls Caboose in for another hug. “I’m learning that this week,” he says. “And you can learn it with me, if you want.”

“Yes,” Caboose murmurs. “I’d like that very much.”

 

* * *

 

Donut shuts the door to Wash’s office. “I will have a beer with you.”

Wash looks up. “Uh, hello.”

“I’ll have a beer with you, but under two conditions.”

Wash nods. “Alright.”

“The first, you tell me you’re sorry. Right now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Good. And you’ll say it again at the bar.” Donut grips the back of the chair opposite Wash. “The second condition is that you will never speak of what you did to me unless I bring it up first. Can you do that?”

“I can do that.”

“Good.” He turns to go. “I’ll meet you downstairs at the apartment tonight. At seven.” Donut opens the door and leaves before he can change his mind.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” Wash says, as soon as they sit down.

“I’m glad you remembered.” Donut turns to the server. “I hate beer, so I’ll take the house wine as long as it wasn’t brewed in an _actual_ toilet, and he’ll have whatever it is he wants.”

Wash sighs. “Wine for me, too. Also, toilet wine?”

“It’s a long story.”

“...Grif?”

Donut sighs. “Yeah. Grif.”

They get their wine and spend exactly three awkward minutes sipping on it and playing with the coasters.

Donut sighs. “Okay. So why’d you join the Marines?”

“...You wanna know about that?”

“Yes. I want to.”

Wash sighs. “Uh, I don’t know. Wanted to do my part. My step-dad was Navy, so it wasn’t a big surprise. Good benefits.” He waves a hand. “That stuff.”

Donut raises a brow. “Bullshit.”

Wash laughs. “What?”

“Look, we’re not _playing_ bullshit, but every time you tell me something that isn’t true, I’m gonna call it like I see it. And I. Call. _Bullshit_.” He takes a long drink of his wine. “I joined because if I spent another day on my mother’s farm I was going to lose my marbles. She told me if I left I shouldn’t bother coming back.” Donut decides to just finish off the glass and the server quickly replaces it.

“That...sucks. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I mean, it’s not because I love my mother and I miss her all the time and she’s basically all I had for _years_. But hey.”

Wash nods. They lapse into silence again. Wash finishes off his first glass when Donut’s polishing off his second.

“You’re a glass behind, agent.”

Wash nods. “Yeah.” He flicks the edge and it rings even in the din of the bar. “I had a lot of anger issues when I was a kid. My mom...wasn’t super hands on. She didn’t really know how to deal with it. My step-dad was the one who kind of knew what I needed. He sent me to this military school he went to as a kid. After I was done, I just...joined up.”

“Not Navy?”

“Nope.” Wash drains the glass. Donut narrows his eyes. “Alright. His name was Adam and I was...in _love_ with him. When I had to make a choice I followed him.”

“...Wow.”

“I know.”

“So where’s Adam now?”

Wash makes a face. “Dead.”

“Oh. Oh jeez. I’m sorry—”

“Don’t worry about it. It was...a really long time ago.” Wash scrubs a hand over his face. “This is a really _fun_ conversation, huh?”

Donut shakes his head. “It’s not bad. You’re a good person, and I’m still alive. I don’t want to waste anymore of my time being... _angry_. It’s bad for your complexion, _terrible_ for the general aesthetic, _and_ …” Donut sighs. “I don’t _want_ to be mad anymore. I want to move on. I want to let go. I want—”

He feels Wash’s hand on his neck and the cold press of the floor on his cheek before he really registers the explosion. Wash’s face fills his vision and Donut can’t _hear_ — it’s like having a grenade stuck to your head, the blast ringing in your ears, the heat crushing against your nerves and bones and melting into your chest and he can’t _breathe_ and Wash keeps mouthing _are you okay are you okay are you okay_ or maybe he just asks once maybe Donut is just reliving the same eight seconds over and over and _over_ —

“Up you get.” Wash helps him to his feet. “Sorry, I just...reacted.”

Donut nods and grabs his glass of wine, finishing it off. “I’m good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, because we’re going to see what happened.”

Donut feels his _entire_ body react to that statement. “Really?”

“Yes? Come on, let’s go.”

Donut almost asks, _can I have a jet pack,_ but instead he jogs after Wash into the street.

 

* * *

 

“They hit the tram station,” Bitters says. “So no one was injured, but I think some folks on the street had their PTSD triggered.” He glanced around and adds, “That’s not a fuckin’ joke. They’re treating, like, eleven people for shock.”

“Jesus.” Wash runs a hand through his hair. “What’s the damage?”

“Not the worst,” Matthews says. “But not the best. Captain Grif is gonna be _pissed_ when he finds out. Simmons, too.”

“Yeah.” Wash turns to Donut. “We should go see Kimball. She’ll want a sit rep.”

Donut glances behind him. “She’s already here.”

Wash turns. “ _Dammit._ ”

Kimball comes toward them. “What the _hell_ is going on here?”

“Small bomb,” Matthews says, jogging over. “Set off in the center of the building, so there’s no real structural damage, but they definitely undid a good chunk of the work that’s been done this summer.”

“ _Fuck._ ” Kimball paces, which isn’t a great sign. “Alright. Meet me in my office in fifteen. I’ve got to make a call.”

 

* * *

 

Donut offers to head out, but Wash shakes his head.

“I think we’re going to need you.”

“...No offense to, uh, I guess _myself_ , but why?”

“You’re not just Kimball’s lackey, Donut. People on Chorus trust you. They think of you all as heroes. Caboose isn’t _just_ a talking head for the settlements. He gives them serious hope that they have the same potential as the capitol. I want you on this.”

They step off the elevator for Kimball’s office. Donut asks, “This isn’t about winning me over, is it?”

“No. That’s what the wine was for.”

“Alright. I...trust you, I guess.”

Wash glances at him. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear.”

Kimball’s call, apparently, was to Carolina, who is pacing a trail in the carpet.

“What the fuck took you so long?” she snaps.

Wash points. “Don’t take your bad mood out on us. We’re here to help.”

Carolina scowls. Kimball says, “Take a seat, all of you.” She hands Wash a tablet. “I’ve had Carolina working on a handful of threats we’ve received. All anonymous, all with the intention of targeting several high profile locations. UNSC headquarters, my office, and the base. _None_ of them mentioned the tram station, but the MO is the same. Threats talked about a small bomb, meant to do what they called _initial damage._ ”

“Points to something larger,” Wash says. He passes the tablet to Donut. “Maybe the other threats were meant to distract?”

“Or the decision to bomb the station was last minute,” Donut says. Everyone looks at him. “I’m just saying. These threats aren’t exactly _professional_ , you know? They sound...kinda panicked. Look, this one is _rife_ with spelling errors. And they don’t know the proper spelling of capitol, obviously. But see?”

Wash takes the table back. “He’s right. These are all a little haphazard.”

Carolina yanks it from him. “I _noticed_ that.”

“Okay, what did I _just_ tell you—”

“Enough!” Kimball holds out her and and Carolina hands the tablet back to her. “We need all perspectives on this, but it doesn’t matter how professional or _unprofessional_ the threats are. Something very real happened tonight. No one was hurt, which is good, but it means we need to be careful.”

“Scramble Caboose’s travel schedule,” Wash says. “One of these threats has his _name_ in it. I don’t want him near this stuff.”

Kimball nods. “Done.”

“And we’ll need to question everyone involved with the tram station. Including the captains, I suppose.”

“We can do that.”

Donut worries his bottom lip. Maybe he shouldn’t say this, but it’s been on his mind since he sat down. “You should really look into basically anyone in the capitol. Civilians, soldiers, UNSC, all of it. I mean, they’d have to have access somehow. Sorry,” he adds.

“Don’t be.” Kimball sighs. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll have—”

“Donut should be your number one on that,” Wash says.

Carolina turns to him. “I’m sorry?”

“Look, after Caboose, I’m pretty sure Donut is the most well liked of the Reds and Blues. People trust him. I’m not saying they’ll turn over their secrets to him, but they’re less likely to be reserved. They might feel comfortable coming to him with things they know.”

Carolina nods. “That’s...a really good idea, actually. Grif and Simmons are too close to the situation, Tucker needs to stay focused on his recruits—”

“Sarge could help,” Donut suggests, but Carolina shakes her head.

“No. He has orders from Grey to relax.”

“...Why?”

“Age,” Carolina says, without looking. “So Donut’s our top guy on this.”

Kimball nods. “Looks like it.”

“Well,” Donut says. “Lucky for you guys I am _super_ good at topping.”

Wash shakes his head. “Word choice, Donut. _Word choice._ ”

 

* * *

 

By the time they get back to the apartment it’s almost one in the morning. Wash leans heavily against the wall of the elevator, eyes closed.

“I’m glad we did this,” he says quietly.

“Me, too.” The doors open and Donut steps out. The sitting room is dark, but Chorus’s moon shines brightly through the balcony doors. Wash looks exhausted in the moonlight, but when he turns his head at a certain angle, he looks like Donut thinks he might have years ago, when he was young and in love.

“Thank you,” Wash says. “For giving me another chance.”

“Yeah, well, wallowing is bad for your skin.” Donut sighs. “And so are grudges. Maybe we can do this again next week. Minus the explosions.”

“That’d be great.”

“Alright.” Donut heads up the stairs. “Night, Wash.”

Wash gives him a little wave. “Goodnight, Donut.”


	5. i don't know why you say goodbye (carolina)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church's message comes through loud and clear. Caboose reacts. Carolina and Locus make a connection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record the locus/carolina here does not fall under the slow burn tag.
> 
> also rating change.

_Hey, sis._

_I know you. So I know you’ll listen to this six hundred times, and then six hundred more. I know you’ll beat yourself up and tear yourself down trying to figure out how to deal with this. But I also know you’ll be just fine._

 

* * *

 

Carolina closes the door to Donut’s office. “Have you heard anything yet?”

“Uh, it’s only been a few days. People are kind of scared still. Really talking big circles around, you know. The bomb.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Donut sighs. “Well it’s going to have to be. I told Kimball I’m happy to do this, and I _am_ , you have to believe that! But people are freaked out. And they’re not exactly falling all over themselves to hang out with me.”

“Then you need to be more available.”

Donut runs a hand through his hair. “I...guess I could hang out on base more. I don’t have an office down there, but I’ll figure something out.”

“Good.” Carolina picks up her things and moves toward the door. “Let me know as soon as you hear something.”

Donut nods. “Sure will,” he says, and goes back to his work.

Carolina shuts the door behind her and head toward the stairs up to Kimball’s office. She’s meeting with a few UNSC officers, so Carolina moves to head back down the stairs, but Kimball waves her in.

“Sergeant Thace, this is Agent Carolina. She’s my lead on these attacks.”

Thace stands and they shake. He’s a tall, slender man, probably in his late fifties. He’s happier than most UNSC officer’s Carolina’s met the past few weeks. Sort of puts her at ease.

She doesn’t let it linger — Commander Tuthill is skulking in the corner. He always stares at her like he’d love nothing more than to lick her down to just her bones.

“Wonderful,” Tuthill drawls. “A _freelancer._ ”

“Easy,” Thace says. “Agent Carolina’s proved herself. I know it’s only been a few days, agent, but we’re trying to get what we can. Do you have any promising leads?”

“Unfortunately no. The attackers have gone radio silent since the tram station bombing, and we’re having a tough time encouraging people to come forward with any tips or information they might have. The citizens of Chorus are war weary, sergeant. They don’t want anymore conflict and I think they’re hoping this will just go away.”

“That’s doubtful,” the sergeant says. “But I understand their concern.” He turns to Kimball. “Keep me in the loop, please. And I’d like the dossiers on the sim troopers sent over with the other materials I requested, if that’s alright.”

“Of course.”

Tuthill snorts, and Thace turns to him. “Is there a problem, ambassador?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Madame President, Agent Carolina.” Thace nods to them and heads out, with Tuthill slithering behind him.

Carolina shivers. “I don’t like him.”

“Thace?”

“No, Tuthill.”

“Oh.” Kimball sits behind her desk. “You’re not alone. Did you talk to Donut?”

“Yeah.” Carolina sits across from her. “People aren’t talking, but he’s going to spend some more time on base. I think this building feels a little ivory tower for some.”

“Maybe…” Kimball picks up a few of those weird energy jelly beans, pops them into her mouth. “I sent you the Colonel’s travel schedule.”

“The — oh. Caboose.” Carolina’s still getting use to the promotion. “Uh, alright.”

“I’d like you to go with him.”

Carolina sighs. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“His lieutenant is more than happy to look after him. Smith’s a good soldier—”

“Who hasn’t been cleared from the list of suspects. What Donut said was right. The attackers would have needed help, and I can’t overlook anyone.”

Carolina leans back. “You really think someone like Smith would have helped them? He loves this city, he _loves_ Caboose.”

“I can’t take chances. You’re the only person on this planet I know _for sure_ had nothing to do with this, other than the Reds and Blues. And even that I…”

“They wouldn’t.”

“I can’t prove that.”

“Vanessa, don’t do this. I understand the reasoning behind Smith and the others, but there’s absolutely no way one of the Reds and Blues would do this. They _love_ this planet. They’ve made it their home.”

Kimball nods. “I know. And you have no idea how much that helps, but my _heart_ just...it just won’t—”

“It won’t trust.”

“After Felix, after _everything_...I’m terrified. I’ll admit that to you.”

Carolina nods. “I understand.”

“I just need to hold as few threads as possible,” Kimball says. “I have to protect myself. And this planet. So I’m asking you, as a friend and as a comrade, to go with Caboose and keep him safe. Keep your ear to the ground, keep your eyes open.”

“Of course.” Carolina stands. “Did you need anything else? I have a standing PT appointment.”

Kimball shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Dismissed.”

 

* * *

 

Carolina is late getting to the pool, and Sarge is already working through his freestyle.

“Victory waits for no man,” he says. “Or...woman.” He drops one of the stones he uses to count his laps into the basket on the edge of the pool. “Took you long enough.”

Carolina tugs off her shirt and pulls down her shorts before pulling her hair back. She steps off the edge and into the water, sinking down until her toes touch the cool concrete bottom and pushing herself back up. “Meeting with Kimball,” she says, and Sarge nods.

He’s only a few laps ahead of her and she easily catches up, then passes him, waiting until he’s finished the first set to work with him on his backstroke. Eventually they move to the shallow end for stretches and, after, Sarge leans heavy on the edge of the pool and closes his eyes.

“You okay?” Carolina asks.

“M’fine.”

“Your boys were pretty upset when you moved back to base. They understood, but they felt bad.”

“S’not their fault.”

Carolina leans on the edge with him. “How’s your head?”

“It’s alright.” He opens his eyes. “Saw that neuro-whoever of Emily’s yesterday. Wants to crack me open.”

Carolina sighs. “You have a _brain tumor_ , Sarge. And from what I understand, it’s operable.”

“Dunno. Seems like cheatin’.”

“That’s how you want to go, then? I know you’re having trouble seeing, so that’ll probably be the first thing you lose. Speech after that, memory for sure. It doesn’t sound like a fun way to die.”

He shrugs. “No more wars left to fight. Nothin’ I’m young enough for, anyway.” Sarge looks at her. “You think I should tell ‘em.”

“I’ve said it before.”

“Yeah. Haven’t been able to work up the nerve.” He huffs a laugh. “Can’t believe it. All these years, all the things I’ve seen and done, and I’m too damn _scared_ to tell my boys I might die.” He pushes off the wall and lets his arms and legs float up. “Soon, I guess,” he says.

“Soon.”

 

* * *

 

 _Thank you for taking a chance. Thank you for giving me a second one. I know you might be angry that I didn’t say a proper goodbye. And I know you’ll feed me that line about your mom and how goodbye’s are bullshit and whatever. But I think_ that _is bullshit. I think that’s just an excuse._

_Because you can’t pretend I’m not gone. You can’t pretend I didn’t leave._

_I’m going. And I’m not coming back._

 

* * *

 

Caboose’s work on the settlements is mainly meeting with leaders and important people in the community to hear grievances or supply requests. He sometimes goes into school and will read a book to the kids, or visit people in the hospital. Carolina had initially been skeptical of Kimball’s choice — Caboose got distracted easily, had trouble remembering things, and took a lot of what people said pretty seriously.

But the first time she sees him shaking hands with the governor of the Goldfell settlement, she realizes why Kimball made this choice.

Caboose is _tall_. He’s tall and he’s strong — and he smiles a lot. It isn’t just that people look up to him, it’s also that they _have_ to. And when they do, he’s not a terrifying soldier in armor — he’s a goofy guy in glasses and a blue sweater Wash picked out for him, with nice pants and shoes. A firm handshake to go with it. People _like_ Caboose because he makes them feel good, he makes them smile.

He gives them hope.

Outside of New Armonia, Chorus has a total of thirty different settlements and small cities, each trying to play their part in the success of the planet as a whole. Caboose has been to six of them, and Carolina knows Kimball wants to schedule him for a tour of all thirty, but she’s reluctant, especially now after the bombing.

Over dinner, Caboose tells Carolina he’s up to the task.

“It’s kind of like my colony back home.”

“The one on the moon.”

Caboose nods. “Yes. Lunar Prime.”

“You were born there.”

“Yep! My dad was a biologist. He worked on a project for the UNSC.” Caboose smiles. “He had his own lab and everything.”

“That’s really cool. Do you miss living there?”

“Yes. I mean...I miss my family, more than the colony. But we were really happy there.”

“I bet. You ready for our last two stops this week?”

“Mmhm.” Caboose pulls out his notebook. “Kridos and Arcadia.” He closes the book and sets it down. “Wash used my book idea.”

“It was very helpful. Can I see yours?”

Caboose hesitates for a moment, then nods.

It’s as chaotic as she thought it might be — there are some decent drawings in it, a lot of scribbles. The most important things are written in a surprisingly tidy block print, while random ideas and thoughts seem to just be scrawled on the page. Near the end, there’s a note in a handwriting that isn’t Caboose’s —

_You’re doing awesome, don’t give up now! —K_

“Is this from Kaikaina?”

“...Yes.”

“You guys are pretty tight now, huh?”

Caboose shrugs and takes his book back. “She’s a good friend.”

“Yeah. She seems to care a lot about you.”

“...I almost told Kimball I didn’t want to do this. Anymore.”

Carolina frowns. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It is very hard, meeting with people and trying to tell them all the things they worry about will be okay. They’re...scared. I am scared. What if I don’t do it right? What if I say something and they get angry? Or what if President Kimball gets angry—”

“Caboose.” Carolina reaches out and takes his hand. “You’re doing _amazing._ And see? I’m not the only one that thinks that.” She taps the note from Kai. “I bet everyone else feels the same way.”

“...Maybe.”

“No. _Definitely._ ”

Caboose looks at her. “Definitely?” he asks.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

 

* * *

 

_All of that makes me sound like I don’t care. Like I want to break myself apart and never hear your voice again. Never feel the way your nerves fizzle when you get angry, or the way different parts of your brain light up when you hear the voice of someone you love. When you get scared. When you’re happy._

 

* * *

 

Kridos is a flashy little city, doing pretty well on their own. They have some lingering damage from the war, and their militia tells Carolina that there are some spots in the empty areas downtown that might have a few bombs or weapons left behind. Kridos was taken by Charon early on, and the mercs left a lot of things when they evacuated for the capitol or the final battle. Carolina and Caboose suit up and go into one of the buildings and watch them disarm a bomb in just a few minutes.

 _Showoffs_ , she thinks, but not unkindly. They’ve taken care of themselves, and the supply drops have helped.

When they finally sit down with Governor Elena, Caboose sets his helmet on the table and puts on his glasses.

“Please tell what you need,” he says, and his voice is gentle and his expression is open and Governor Elena, who ten minutes ago looked like she spent most of her day walking barefoot over broken glass, finally relaxes.

“I need more teachers,” she says. “I have too many students and not enough instructors.”

Carolina watches Smith log this in his tablet. They spend an hour with Elena, going over the progress Kridos has made, the training they’ve been giving their militia, and the community outreach programs they’ve developed.

Near the end of the meeting, Carolina asks, “Did you hear what happened at the capitol?” and Elena nods.

“Yes. We sent our condolences to President Kimball, but we were assured no one died in the blast.”

“Have you noticed anything suspicious lately? Anyone who hasn’t seemed happy with President Kimball or what’s been going on in the capitol?”

Elena leans forward, and Carolina’s reminded of videos where snakes unhinge their jaws and _swallow_ something whole.

“Is that not allowed, Agent Carolina? Because if I handed you a list of people in this city who aren’t very fond of President Kimball, I don’t know if you’d have enough days in a year to go through it. She’s the president. Of course she does things we don’t like. But I suppose to answer what you’re _really_ asking me...no. There’s no one working for me or living in this city who I think would be capable of attacking the capitol.” Elena stands.

“You’re threading a very dangerous needle, Agent Carolina. I suggest you approach your investigation with a bit more... _finesse._ ”

 

* * *

 

_I’m trying to tell you I love you, C. I’m trying to tell you that, if I was capable of it, I would miss the hell out of you._

_Carolina — I’m trying to tell you goodbye._

 

* * *

 

They leave Kridos that evening, and Carolina _breathes._ Elena is right. She’s been approaching this like a bull in a china cabinet — no grace, trying to force news from Donut, making it sound like Kimball is hunting down anyone who doesn’t agree with her. She needs to handle the situation with more care. In Arcadia, she thinks, she’ll do better.

But Arcadia isn’t anything _like_ Kridos.

Arcadia is small. Arcadia is half in ruins.

Arcadia is a _disaster_.

The governor, Louis, is a jovial man all the same. He shakes Caboose’s hand and shows them through their meager city hall. Arcadia, too, was taken in the war, but abandoned sooner.

“No strategic advantage. Are you here with supplies?” he adds.

“Yes.” Caboose has Smith and his team bring out the crates. “When was your last shipment?”

“I think...I think six months ago.”

Caboose frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Of course we’re very small, so we’ve made it last, but we’re, uh. We’re certainly running thin. We have some problem areas—”

“Show me.” Caboose’s voice is tight and Carolina doesn’t like that.

She takes his hand. “Caboose—”

“Leave me alone,” he says. “I am working.”

Carolina’s taken aback, but she lets him go, turning to work with Smith and the others to unload the supplies before she takes a tour of the town on her own.

Arcadia is quiet, run down. She spots some commotion toward the south, but approaches slowly. Men are shouting, heaving something into place. As she nears, she sees it’s a school, and they’re trying to replace the generator.

“Put your backs into it!” someone calls and before she can stop herself, Carolina is in the middle of them, pushing with all her might until the metal casing surrounding the generator is in the right spot. She backs off, panting, grinning. Feels good to do something more than just scurry around, hunting for anyone who might have a beef with the capitol.

“Sir, we owe you so much.” One of the men claps another on the back, looking up at him and smiling. “Really.”

“It was nothing. Just maintain this one, it isn’t brand new.”

“Of course.”

Carolina turns toward the second voice. She _knows_ that voice. Knows it better than she should.

“...Locus?”

Locus turns. She’s never seen him without his helmet, but he rescued her, rescued Wash, and she will never forget the gravelly cadence of his voice, the one that told her not to push herself, the one that promised he’d get Wash to safety.

He looks...a lot like she thought he might. And also worlds away from what she could have imagined.

The men around the generator disperse, and they are left standing there together as it rumbles to life.

“What are you doing here—”

“How is Washington—”

They both stop. Carolina chances a smile. “Trying to do the right thing?”

“This town needed help. I landed here to rest. I didn’t want to risk going into the capitol. Out here, they don’t know who I am.”

“Were you ever here?”

Locus nods. “Briefly, before we pulled out. Why are you here?”

“It’s a long story.” They start walking back toward the center of town. “Wash is doing fine. His memory’s not what it was, but he’s dealing with it.”

“That’s good.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A few days. Does Kimball know this place is in shambles? It’s been at least six months since their last supply drop, and the one they had was meager at best.”

“We’re here to help.”

Locus grunts. “Seems like something slipped through the cracks.”

As they approach the city hall, Caboose comes out, pale faced and stricken. He turns to Carolina.

“They don’t have _running water_.”

Carolina frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“They don’t have _electricity_ , their generators are all broken, the school is a mess. The doctors _left_ ,” Caboose says and Carolina sees his hands are trembling.

It strikes her that she has never seen Caboose angry on his own.

A second later, she realizes that is exactly what she’s looking at.

“Caboose—”

“We are going back to the capitol in the morning, and we are telling Kimball _everything._ ”

“Alright. Just...just _relax_ , okay?”

“She _forgot_ about them. She forgot and now everything is broken. _Everything._ ” Caboose runs his hands through his hair and Carolina forgets that Locus is with them. She goes and takes Caboose’s face in her hands and brings him close.

“ _Hey._ I know you’re upset, alright? I know you’re angry. But we’re here now. We’re here, and we’re going to _fix this_ , okay?”

Caboose’s breathing starts to calm. Carolina presses their foreheads together.

“Easy,” she murmurs. “Just...just breathe, bud. Okay?”

Caboose nods. “Okay. _Okay._ ”

Behind them, Carolina hears Locus turning and walking away. She knows she wouldn’t have if he hadn’t wanted her to.

 

* * *

 

Governor Louis puts them up in an abandoned home that’s been fixed up.

“We’re hoping to get some folks who want to get out of the capitol, maybe escape the hustle and bustle. It’s quiet out here. Did you see where we’re trying to plow?”

Carolina had. It didn’t seem to be going very well.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Louis says. “Colonel—” He shakes Caboose’s hand. “Thank you for listening today. I know we’re finally in good hands.” He nods to Carolina and shuts the door to the house.

Caboose isn’t up for long. They eat together and he apologizes for getting so upset — “I don’t know how to stop it, sometimes.” — and then he goes to bed.

Carolina stays up, reading by the light of a lantern until she hears a gentle knock on the door.

She knows it’s him before she opens it, but he’s still something to behold.

“May I come in?” he asks, and Carolina nods, stepping aside before shutting the door after him. “They’re hoping people will move here. But they don’t have anything to offer.”

“Caboose is going to help them.” Carolina motions for him to sit and he does, albeit stiffly, along the edge of the sofa. “He’s good at that.”

“He’d be the first in a while.”

“Don’t sit here and act like you weren’t the cause of some of this.”

“I won’t. I take responsibility for what I’ve done. It’s why I’ve come to help. But Kimball needs to learn to take better care of her things, or she’s going to find herself with more than a few bomb threats and a tram station blasted to hell.” He finally leans back. “I know what I’ve done, Carolina. I know what I was...what I _am_ capable of.

“I know I can never make it completely right.”

Carolina folds her legs under her. “It’s the trying of things,” she murmurs. “That’s part of what...makes us human. Mistakes, making amends. We’re doing our best.”

“I have never done my best. Not until recently.”

She shrugs. “Well. Better late than never.”

Locus turns to her.

Carolina isn’t sure if he leans into her space, or she into his — all she knows is it only takes a moment, and then they are breathing the same air, and his face, his scar, his eyes, are so close.

Their noses touch.

“I never...I never thanked you. For taking Wash to Chorus. And for saving us.”

“You’ve never had to.”

“I could,” she says.

There’s a feeling that’s been winding its way through her since she saw him earlier today. The ghost of it has lived in her for years, so she recognized it, but couldn’t name it. Now — she can.

_Desire._

It’s like — _waves_ , crashing over her. Her hands tremble as they come up to frame his face, brushing back the stray curl that has escaped the tie keeping his hair pulled up. His fingers comes up and carefully loosen her own, until her hair cascades down her back and he can grip it gently in his hands.

He is not a good person. She knows that.

But she has stopped pretending that being _good_ is the opposite of being bad. Of being a monster. Sometimes _good_ is too much. Sometimes good is too hard or too complicated.

Sometimes just being there, being present, being _ready_ —

Sometimes that is enough.

 

* * *

 

She goes back into the cradle of want. It holds her and carries her and she opens her mouth and finds his already there, tongue slipping against her own. His hand slides down her abdomen, moves over the tangle of hair between her legs and he carefully slips two fingers between her folds. No one has touched her in years.

He trembles when she gasps, and she thinks that he must be the same.

Locus settles between her legs, and Carolina grips his hair in her fingers, draws him close to her cunt and then arches her back as his tongue makes the first swipes over her clit. He is ravenous, breathing heavily against her and gripping her thighs _tight._ Carolina loosens her hold and braces herself on her elbows, rolling her hips against him. He releases his grip on one of her legs and slides two fingers inside her, then three, slowly fucking her open.

Carolina watches as he presses his lips to her hip. Then her thigh. Then the bend of her knee. She’s caught off guard when his thumb starts circling her clit, letting her head fall back as she fights the urge to moan into the dark of the room.

“Interesting,” he says, to a bruise on her calf.

“ _What?_ ”

“I thought you might be louder. That’s all.”

“We aren’t _alone._ ”

Locus glances up at her. “He isn’t a child.”

Carolina tries to seem furious, but it clearly doesn’t come off that way. Locus actually _laughs_ , a odd sort of huffing noise somewhere between a cough and a sigh. He adjusts his hand inside her cunt and strokes her before pressing _up_. Carolina cries out in surprise, clenching around him.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“I’ll tell if you do.”

Locus pauses. “...Fair enough.” He presses one last kiss to her inner thigh before moving up, cupping a hand behind her head and drawing her in for a kiss. It’s the kind that digs its teeth into you, the kind she knows she’ll be thinking about later, hot water running down her back, fingers frantically trying to get herself off in her morning shower.

She will think longer about this kiss then she will about the heat of his cock pressing against her leg, or the drag of his fingers as he slides them out. She will fantasize for more hours over the insistent press of his lips against her own than she will over the briefest touch of his glossy fingers. She takes a breath, takes in the scent of her own _need_ , stronger than anything else.

“Roll over,” she says, and he obeys. Carolina swings one leg over, straddling his waist. Locus strokes his cock, squeezing the base, staving off an orgasm.

Carolina lets him tease her entrance with the head, until she wraps her fingers around him.

Even with the teasing beforehand, he’s a lot. Carolina takes him slowly, sinking down his length until she feels the press of his hips back up against her. Locus’ hands settle at her waist, his eyes meet hers — and that’s where they are when they both start to move.

The rhythm is off, at first. A little bumpy, a little unfocused — but they get used to the feel of one another. He lets her set the pace, lets her work at her clit as she fucks him to get herself off. It takes a few minutes, but she clenches around him, her head falling back. She can't stop from crying out.

She looks down at him as he fights off the urge to come.

“It’s alright.” She takes him a few more times, relishing in the feel of him, in the heavy drag of his cock every time she pushes herself up. One final thrust and she pulls off of him, settling by his side and wrapping a hand around his length. “You can come, it’s alright.”

Locus turns to look at her, one hand reaching out to cup behind her head, urging her toward him. It’s a good kiss. Not as brilliant as the first one, but good enough for her to moan against his mouth, to suck on his tongue, to let him pull her bottom lip between her teeth one last time before he lets go and comes with a shout, buried in the crook of her neck.

Carolina gets up to find something to clean the come from his stomach, settling on her t-shirt from earlier. Locus leans back against the pillow, eyes closed as he breathes through the end.

She sits next to him, reaching down to brush the hair from his forehead. “That wasn’t me thanking you,” she says. “That’s not how I do things.”

Locus opens one eye. The look he gives her is endearing, she thinks, but now, mellowed and loose and so close to sleep, it’s hard to tell. He says, “I think I know at least that about you,” and Carolina smiles, sinking into the blanket next to him and falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

_Take care of everyone as best you can, but I need you to remember that there are people there to take care of you._

_Don’t go at anything alone. Don’t spare anyone._

_You are worth the trouble. You are worth every scar, scrape, cut, or bruise. You are worth the cavalry._

 

* * *

 

“ _You forgot they were there! They needed you and you didn’t even know!_ ”

“Colonel, please—”

“They _need_ you,” Caboose says. “They need this capitol. And you just...you just—” He’s trembling again, but Carolina can’t go near him. This is technically his official debriefing of the trip. He’s a colonel, now. This is his mission.

But _god_ she wants to hold his hand.

“It was never my intention—”

“ _It doesn’t matter!_ ” Caboose groans in frustration. “You were left! You were forgotten! And look what happened!” His grip on the back of the chair opposite Kimball’s desk is white-knuckled. Carolina swears the plastic is starting to warp. “When you forget, that’s how people die. That’s how dads die, that’s how sisters go to jail.” He lets go of the chair and it topples to its side. “That’s how you _lose everything._ ”

Kimball is standing, and she’s a good head shorter than Caboose, but she stands tall. She’s a proud woman.

“I understand,” she says. “I’m sorry visiting Arcadia was so upsetting to you, Colonel.”

“I just want to fix it. That’s all.”

Kimball nods. “We can do that. Agent Carolina, will you excuse us? I’d like to go over this with the colonel in private.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Carolina turns and shuts the door to the office as Kimball says gently, “Tell me everything I need to know.”

She heads out of the capitol building, unsure of what to do with herself. Locus is somewhere in New Armonia, but she knows he’ll find her before she finds him. She’s big enough to admit that. At an intersection, she decides to hang a right toward the base, her feet carrying her to Wash’s little office on the bottom floor. He’s in the training room adjacent, praising his recruits, giving corrections. Carolina shoulders open the door and watches them spar.

“That’s good, Riley. Your stance looks a lot better. Yasin, you need to keep your hands up, but your offense was good. I’ll see everyone tomorrow morning, understood?”

“ _Yes, sir!_ ”

“Dismissed.” Wash turns and starts picking up equipment, so Carolina jogs over and starts to help. He looks up, a little surprised. “You’re back.”

“You remembered.”

He taps the pocket of his shirt where she knows he keeps his book. “How was it?”

“Not bad. Caboose had a moment, but we made it through. He’s talking things out with Kimball.” She explains the situation in Arcadia and Caboose’s reaction. She almost tells him about Locus, but she can never be sure what Wash will or won’t write down, so she leaves that part out. “I think they’ll be able to help.”

“Caboose takes this pretty seriously, so I’d bet on that.” He tosses the mats into the corner. “Something on your mind?”

Carolina shrugs. “I guess.” She looks at him. “I know we agreed on...distance. But we didn’t agree on the way we’ve been treating one another. I’ve been short with you, and I know you’ve disagreed with me and I’ve reacted poorly. And I wanted...to say I’m sorry.”

Wash leans against the wall. “Yeah...I’m sorry, too.”

“When you got hurt, I thought for sure you’d...you’d left me. I felt so angry, and I just don’t think it went away. It’s _just_ us, Wash.”

“No it’s not.”

“Wash, the project—”

“Fuck the project,” he says. “Fuck that. You know, I’ve been working a lot of shit out in therapy, and I’ve decided that I’m not gonna do that _last of our kind_ thing anymore. What was so great about what we were? Who gives a shit what our old legacy was?” Wash straightens. “Carolina, we are _alive._ We wake up every fucking day and we breathe and our brains remember and forget shit, and the blood pumps through our bodies. You’re not the last of your kind, you’re a fucking miracle. And you should call it what it is.

“It’s a fucking blessing.”

Carolina stares.

Wash sighs. “Maybe that was too much. I had it practiced—”

“I was mad because I couldn’t say goodbye. And I was mad again because...because I always told myself I hate goodbyes.”

“Like your mom.”

“Like my mom.” She sits on the mats. Wash sits next to her. “I play Church’s message all the time. _He_ got to say goodbye, but I never had the chance.”

“Sometimes you don’t get to.”

She nods. “I know. Maybe this is what my mom was trying to avoid.”

“Maybe.” He takes her hand. “You don’t owe me an apology. We’re family, now. We’re going to fight and bicker and sometimes I’m going to break something and blame it on you. I grew up with two sisters, I know how it works.”

Carolina snorts and leans her head on his shoulder. “Epsilon used to call me sis. He said it in his message, too.”

“He definitely had that shitty little brother thing going for him.” Wash kisses the top of her head. “Are we good?” he asks.

Carolina nods. “Yeah.” She closes her eyes and listens to the steady sound of Wash breathing in and out. A reminder that he is alive, that he is with her —

That he is hers.

“We’re good.”

 

* * *

 

_I hope you miss me, but not too much. I hope you think about me, but not too often._

_I hope you tell everyone how amazing I was, how I saved the day and saved your ass. I hope you tell them that I was cool and clever and extremely advanced considering my age. I hope you tell them you couldn’t have done it without me._

_But, mostly?_

_I hope you always remember that that’s a lie. I hope you remember that I was just along for the ride._

_I hope you’re happy, C. I hope you’re happy._


	6. tread lightly on my ground (kaikaina)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaikaina sorts out her feelings. Caboose plans for a trip. Dinner is served.

Kai was never an early riser, before Blood Gulch. Now, it’s a force of habit. Up by five, at the last. Work out, breakfast, go to the hospital. In the evening it’s dinner, study, crash hard. A cycle, but not a terrible one. Something that keeps her going, keeps her working, keeps a goal at hand. She gets out of bed and ties her hair back, changing from pajamas to her workout clothes and grabbing her shoes.

Outside her door is a little box, wrapped in brown paper. Kai picks it up and tears it open, lifting the lid from the box. Inside is a hunk of rose quartz, and a note in Caboose’s tidy block print that reads, _BACK._ Kai grins and grips the box in her hand, running down the stairs and into the kitchen. Caboose is the only one there, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Kai can barely wait for him to put it down before she runs and _throws_ herself at him, hanging from his neck. His arms come up and wrap around her.

“You’re back!” she says and he finally sets her down.

“I’m back.”

Kai laughs — he’s been out for almost three weeks, spending time in Arcadia and visiting a few new settlements. She hadn’t realized until a few days before just how _much_ she missed him, and now that he’s here and she can feel him and hear his voice, it rushes back and threatens to overwhelm.

He always _holds_ her. She could go boneless in his arms and she’d stay standing. Her chest is against his, her arms are dangling loosely around his neck and in a rare fantasy — she imagines herself being the one who kisses first.

But he lets go and points to the box. “I found that. In the dirt.”

“It’s beautiful. I love it.” She sets it on the table and takes the chair next to him as he sits down. “How was it?”

“Really good. Arcadia is getting better. More doctors came.” He sips his coffee and pulls a face. “I just can’t do it, it’s so gross.”

Kai laughs and goes to the fridge and gets the creamer, pouring the amount he likes into the cup. “What about the other places? Anything cool?”

Caboose frowns and pulls out his notebook. “Oh! You would love Arness. They have a very fancy club for dancing.”

“ _Hot._ ”

He nods seriously. “That’s what I told Carolina you’d say.” He takes another drink. “ _Much_ better.”

He’s telling her about the projects they’ve started in Arcadia when Simmons comes in for coffee.

“Hey, Caboose. I didn’t know you were back.”

“Yep! Just got back this morning. How’s your tram station?”

Simmons sighs. “Well, it’s not a crime scene anymore. Did you hear someone hit one of the new stops we started building though?”

Caboose nods. “Carolina told me. She’s very frustrated.”

“Well she should talk to Donut. I guess he heard some gossip. Good to have you back, man.” He heads out, stopping as Grif comes in after him. The two turn so Caboose and Kai can’t hear them, even though they both lean as close as possible, staring one another down. It’s useless — Grif and Simmons have mastered the art of apparently meaningful, near-silent communication.

When Simmons is gone, Grif turns to them. “Stop it.”

“We weren’t _doing_ anything,” Kai says.

“Whatever. How was your trip, Caboose?”

“Very nice. But I am...very tired.” Kai looks at him and sees, now, the exhaustion that seems to slide off of him. He stands. “I’m going to go take a very, very, very, _very_ long nap. Do you want my coffee?”

Kai nods. “Sure.”

“Thank you.” He moves to go, then stops. “Also. I was invited to a dinner party.”

Grif whistles. “Fancy or denim appropriate.”

“Unfortunately, fancy. Anyway—” Caboose looks back at Kai. “I can bring someone, and I want to bring you.”

Kai is a little thrown off, but she nods. “Uh, yeah. Yes. Totally. That sounds fuckin’ awesome. Dinner with fancy people?”

“Yes. Sergeant Thace is hosting it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Grif says. “He’s a big deal.”

“He’s also very nice,” Caboose says. “Tomorrow at—” He stops, frowns, and pulls out his books. “Oh, gosh. Um...seven. Tomorrow at seven.”

“I’ll help you remember,” Kai says.

Caboose looks relieved. “Thank you. Okay. Naptime.” He puts a hand on her shoulder as he moves past and goes up the stairs to his room.

Kai takes a sip of his coffee. Way too sweet. Grif sits in Caboose’s chair.

“That’s a date.”

“It is _not_.”

“Uh, yes.” Grif takes the coffee from her. “Don’t torture yourself, I’ll drink it.” He picks up the mug and takes a sip. “But that’s a date, Kay-Kay.”

“It’s _not_. We’re friends and we’re going to dinner, _Dee-Dee._ ”

Grif makes a face. “Ugh, I forgot about that nickname.” He takes another drink. “Okay, then what’s in the box?”

“...Nothing.”

“Come on, gimme it.”

Kai rolls her eyes. “It’s a cool rock, okay? A rose quartz. He...found it.”

“And thought of you, put it in a box, _wrapped_ the box, and gave it to you.” Grif stands. “Seems like more than friends to me.”

Kai tips her head to the side. “More than friends, huh? Let’s talk about you then, bro. How’re things with Dick?”

“They’re fine, platonic, and peachy.” He lifts his cup. “And I’ll drink to that.”

“Bullshit,” she says.

“Well, that’s your opinion.”

“Whatever, asshole.” Kai grabs her gift and heads down to the gym.

 

* * *

 

The truth is Kai _does_ like Caboose. Like hold hands, be the little spoon, have breakfast in bed, kiss you under the _moonlight_ likes Caboose and it’s a problem.

It’s a problem because he likes her, too, she knows it, but Kaikaina Grif _never_ tells a guy she likes him first because there are rules and there are restrictions and you can’t just go around telling guys you like them because that’s what fourteen year old girls do. And besides — the boys always come to her.

Except —

Except _now_. Now it feels like all the rules she used to follow, the categories and the boxes she put everyone in — now those don’t apply.

Caboose is fucking _rogue_ , and she has no idea how to handle this.

She works through it at the gym, but can’t figure it out. She goes upstairs and showers, gets dressed for work. Still can’t figure it out. She sets the box on her bedside table, the quartz still inside it, and slips her feet into her shoes. Did she already follow her rule without realizing it?

Did he already tell her how he feels, and she just hasn’t been listening?

At the hospital, she’s in a good mood. She’s kind of excited about going to the dinner party — something _sort of_ normal in this vast fucking sea of weirdness that’s living on Chorus. Grey notices right away.

“ _You’re_ smiling an awful lot, Miss Grif.”

“I’m in a good mood.”

“ _Ooo_ , a development with the Colonel?”

Kai sighs. She could deny it, but Grey caught them having lunch right before his last trip and Kai could have _sworn_ he was going to kiss her — his hand was on her knee, his body was turn toward her, the eye contact was fucking intense.

But it didn’t happen. They’ve been playing this game for months, and nothing.

“We’re...going to a dinner party.”

“Of course, the sergeant’s little _get_ together.”

“Were you invited?”

“I was, but I’ll be unable to attend. Personal reasons. Please _do_ tell me everything. Also.” Grey turns to her. “I’ve recently admitted a very special patient. I’m putting him on your rotation, but I’m going to request your discretion.”

Kai picks up her tablet. The newest block on her rotation doesn’t have a name, just a case number, age, and gender.

“Who—”

“You’ll see when you make your rounds. _Wesley!_ Stop dawdling I need you in surgery with Dr. Arnold, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Grey turns back to her. “I’ll be discharging him at the end of the day. It was just a little fall, but I’m hoping it provides a bit of perspective. Don’t go easy on him, and _don’t_ let him leave without him making you a very _specific_ promise. Do you understand?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, totally.” She tucks the tablet under her arm and makes her way down the hall.

 

* * *

 

Kai was in nursing school, when she left for Blood Gulch. Grey was the first person she told that, and she isn’t sure why.

There’s a lot she doesn’t remember, but there’s a lot that comes to her, and Grey’s books and kind of serial killer notes she goes over in the evening have definitely helped. The hospital can afford to take her on, because they’re not treating war wounded anymore and Grey’s trying to turn General into a teaching hospital. There’s usually a doctor or a more experienced nurse in the room when she visits, but not with her new patient.

No — her new patient is Sarge.

And he looks fucking _pissed._

He points when she comes in, then motions for the door. “Get the _hell_ out of here!”

“Oh you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“I will _not_ be lectured to about _honesty_ and _integrity_ from _you_.”

Kai slams the door shut behind her. “Hey, old man. I didn’t _ask_ to have you on my rotation, alright? Grey stuck me in here and told me to put you through the fuckin’ ringer.”

Sarge scowls. “...I need another pillow.”

“Tough shit.”

“ _Hussy._ ”

“Cretin,” she snaps back, and picks up his chart. She skips the demographics, cuts down to the on call doctor’s note.

_Grade IV glioblastoma._

“...Brain tumor.” Kai looks up. “You have a _brain tumor._ ”

Sarge folks his arms over his chest. “Seems like it.”

“It says you’ve been this way for two months.”

He grunts.

“Sarge—”

“I agreed to the damn operation. No idea why I’m in here.”

Kai looks at the chart. “The note says you _fell down a flight of stairs._ ”

“Don’t remember that.”

“Yeah, because now, on top of a _tumor_ , you’re concussed.” She puts the chart down and goes over to him, inspecting the gash on his head.

“ _Mildly_ concussed.”

“Oh shut up.” Kai checks the dressing, checks his reaction to light, then steps back. “...You haven’t told anyone. If you’d told someone I’d know. No one in this weird family can keep a secret.” Kai pulls up a chair and sits down.

Sarge looks away.

“...Sir.” His eyes flick toward her, then back to the wall. “Are you...scared?”

“Of course not! I jumped out of ships! I fought aliens! I put up with Grif! You think I’m _scared_ of a lump of cells that can’t follow orders? _Hmph._ ”

Kai presses her lips together. “Yes,” she says. “I think you are.”

His expression falters, and it feels wrong. Kai looks away.

“She says I might not make it. I fell down the stairs because I got...dizzy. Eyes went kinda dark.” Sarge unfolds his arms. “I’m not afraid of the tumor.” He leans his head back and closes his eyes. “I’m afraid of dyin’.”

His hand is resting by his side. Kai reaches out tentatively and curls her own around it. It’s big, warm, dry — she doesn’t remember holding hands with her dad, and she certainly doesn’t look at Sarge and think _father figure_.

But she imagines this what it might feel like, sitting bedside with your father, reaching out to hold his hand when the veneer starts to crumble.

He doesn’t tell her to stop, either. And so they sit together for a while, Kai carefully holding his hand while she signs off on a few orders and thinks about what she’s going to wear to dinner.

 

* * *

 

Grif looks up as she comes into the kitchen and nods approvingly. “You look... _nice._ ”

Kai glances down at the black dress, then to her brother. “Really? You’re gonna go with _nice?_ ”

He shrugs. “Yeah. You look nice. For your dinner that’s totally _not_ a date with Caboose.”

Simmons appears from behind the fridge door. “You’re going to Sergeant Thace’s dinner party?”

“Yeah.”

He turns to Grif. “...Why weren’t _we_ invited?”

“Because you don’t kiss Thace’s ass. But it is weird that _Caboose_ gets to go.” Grif sighs. “Whatever. You guys have fun hanging out with stuff UNSC officers and eating cold soup.”

Simmons scowls. “Do you know _anything_ about dinner parties? _At all?_ ”

“No. Why would I _ever_ need that information?”

“Because what if you _were_ invited!”

“But I _wasn’t_ , so it doesn’t _matter._ ”

“You _never know_ what kind of potential etiquette situation you could wind up in—”

A hand carefully wraps around Kai’s elbow, and she turns to see Caboose in a dinner jacket, smiling down at her.

“I think they’re gonna be at that a _while_ ,” he whispers, and gently pulls her toward the door. In the hall as they wait for the elevator, he looks at her and grins. “You look _really_ pretty.”

“Um, thanks. I mean, thank you. I just, like. Found this. Today. The other day, I think.”

Caboose nods. “Wash helped me find my shirt.”

“Well you look…” Kai takes a breath and takes him in. She smiles. “You look _really_ good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Very handsome.”

Caboose laughs. The door to the elevator opens and he offers her his arm. “Ready?”

Kai nods. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Thace’s apartment is about a fifteen minute walk from their own, so they hook a right out of the building and head down the sidewalk. Caboose is very quiet, which is a little unusual, so Kai slips her hand in his and nudges his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

“Hm?”

“I know you’re pretty good clearing your thoughts, but you look...worried about something.”

“I’m not.”

“...Caboose.”

He sighs. “I just...am not very smart. And talking to important people makes me nervous. What if they meet me and don’t like me and they see I’m not very fancy at all.”

Kai shrugs. “I’m not fancy.”

“No, you could definitely pass for fancy,” Caboose says. “I mean...I mean everyone _likes_ you. Like...like people always want to talk to you and they think you’re very interesting.” He shakes his head. “No, you will do great. I don’t know if I should go, actually.” He stops, right there, but Kai’s got momentum and it startles her, almost sending her stumbling to the ground.

Caboose throws out an arm and catches her, drawing her close to his chest.

She’s still clutching his hand, and now he’s _holding_ her again and she never noticed, until _right now_ , that his eyes are hazel.

He exhales. “I’m afraid.”

Kai feels herself start to tremble, which is _ridiculous_ , so she turns out of his grip, keeping his hand in hers, and says, “Then just follow my lead.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. We’ll get through this together, okay?” She gives him a tug and they start walking again.

Inside Thace’s building, Caboose nervously punches the up button with his thumb, and Kai forces him to face her so she can fix his shirt and jacket.

“You look very handsome, people _like_ you, and you’re a goddamn Colonel, alright?”

“Alright.”

The doors open and they step on. Caboose hands drift to her arms, keeping her close to him.

Kai keeps her eyes on the dark blue fabric of his button up.

“...Hey.” He lifts her chin. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Kai nods. “Me, too.”

“And I’m glad...I’m glad you’ve _been there_ with me. I’ve really liked becoming your friend.”

“I like being your friend, too.”

“But...but also…”

Kai presses herself closer. “Also.”

Caboose nods. “Yeah. _Also._ ”

He leans down and catches her lips with his, the touch of them careful and light. It would have caught her off guard if she weren’t reaching up to pull him closer, cupping his cheek with her hand. She sweeps her tongue over his, gripping the sleeve of his jacket with her other hand.

The door opens and a woman says, not unkindly, “Oh, I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Caboose pulls back quickly, stammering at her. “I, um. I—” He takes a breath. “I’m Michael Caboose. This is my friend Kaikaina Grif.”

“Oh, the colonel! Of course, of course.” The woman waves them in. “Come through, we’re in the sitting room. Can I get you kids something to drink? Wine? Scotch? I’ve got a sangria mixed up.”

“Water,” Caboose says.

“Sangria.” Kai hooks her arm in Caboose’s as the woman goes into the kitchen. “See? You did great.”

“Yeah.” He looks at her. “Yeah I did.”

“Colonel?” They both turn and see Sergeant Thace. He waves them into the sitting room. “Come in, son, come in. Meet everyone.” He leads them into the sitting room. “This is Captain Davies, over there. That’s Wilson, Singh, and that’s Sergeant Rice. I’m sure you’ve met him a few times already.”

Caboose nods. “Yes! Yes, I have. Sergeant, sir. I’m very happy to see you again.”

“And you, Michael. Glad you could make it.” Rice lifts his glass and Thace motions for them to sit.

Kai feels Caboose’s hand slip into hers, and it stays there most of the night.

 

* * *

 

Dinner party talk is dry. Kai makes a note to ask Simmons if it’s supposed to be, then remembers Simmons is a dork. What _does_ her brother see in him?

Thace is telling a story that she’s completely zoned out on, but she comes back in when she hears, “—why I wanted Caboose to join us tonight. I spent my first year as a Captain on Lunar Prime.”

Caboose fumbles his salad fork. “ _Really?_ ”

“Yep.”

Wilson frowns. “What’s Lunar Prime?”

“That moon colony,” Singh answers, She looks at Thace. “How long were you there?”

“Oh, about...sixteen years? Beck?”

The woman who’d been at the elevator is Rebecca Thace, the sergeant’s wife. She takes a sup from her wine glass and says, “Seventeen. We left just before James went to university. Michael, did you live on the colony?”

Caboose nods. “I was born there.”

“ _Born_ there?” Singh looks at him. “I had no idea families were allowed.”

“Oh yes. I had seventeen sisters.”

Singh raises a brow. “...Interesting.” She turns to Thace. “Why did you leave?”

“Well the UNSC pulled the colony’s resources, so we had to relocate. And I’d gotten a promotion, so we were due for a move. Never been anywhere as long as we were on that colony.” He shakes his head. “Real shame about what happened.”

Caboose is tugging on the napkin in his lap, managing to tear a hole in the fabric. Kai quickly grips his hand and he stops, holding onto her tight.

“I remember when that happened.” Sergeant Rice looks at Caboose. “Did your family relocate?”

“I...I, um—” Kai threads their fingers together. “Yes. They did. But I enlisted. After. So.”

Singh turns toward him. “Do you miss it, Colonel?”

Caboose breathes. “I…” He looks at Kai, and she nods. He keeps his gaze on her. “Yes,” he says, voice breaking at the end. “I miss it.” He finally looks at everyone else. “I miss it all the time.”

 

* * *

 

The walk back is silent, but not in an especially good way. Caboose keeps his hands buried in his pockets and Kai folds her arms over her chest. Summer is going to end soon, she’s been told. And she can feel the chill.

“Caboose—”

“I...I do not want to talk about it.”

“You’re really upset.” They make it to the lobby of their building and Caboose taps the up button before slipping his hand back into his pocket. “You’re shaking.”

“It’s cold.”

“Dude, come on—”

He looks at her sharply. “I _don’t_ want to talk about it.” The doors open and they step on. The ride up is _achingly_ long. Kai tries to take Caboose’s hand, but he pulls away.

She grips his jacket instead. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed back,” he murmurs.

“I _mean_ that we...you and I...I have feelings for you and I care about you. I want to make sure you’re alright.”

“Well I am fine,” he snaps, and the door opens. “I don’t need to talk about it.”

“Whoa, talk about what?” Tucker appears around the corner and Kai groans. Pretty much everyone is in the kitchen, playing cards. “How was dinner?”

Caboose brushes past him. “It was fine. I’m going to bed.”

“It _wasn’t_ fine, Caboose is upset—”

“Stop it.” He turns. “Just...just _stop it._ I don’t need to talk about it, and I don’t need you to check on me!”

Wash stands from his chair. “Caboose, it’s alright. No one’s asking you to talk about anything.”

“She is!” He points to Kai, his voice getting loud. “She’s asking because _she_ thinks she understands!”

“No, I _want_ to understand because I care about you.” She walks over to him, but Caboose steps back. “Dude, come on—”

“You don’t understand. You could _never_ understand.” He’s shaking all over now. “I lost...I lost _everything_. They did not _pull out_. They _forgot_ about us. They stopped taking _care_ of us.” He takes another step back. “The...the teachers left. And the soldiers left. And then...then the _doctors_ left.

“My dad was _sick_ , and there was no one to take care of him so he _died._ They told me if I joined up they’d send my mom and my sisters somewhere safe. She didn’t like that and she was angry and she yelled at me before she left and when I tried to find her no one would tell me where she was. She could be _anywhere_ in the universe and I _won’t know._ ”

Caboose runs a hand through his hair. “So you _get it_ now, don’t you. You _get_ that you will _never_ know how that feels.” He shakes his head. “And I can’t _talk_ about it because, when I do, I feel...I _feel_ —”

Kai moves toward him. “Caboose—”

“I feel _alone_ ,” he says. “I have no home to go back to, and I will never see my mom again.”

He turns to Tucker. “Dinner was actually very good. And I am very sorry for yelling,” he adds, before going upstairs.

 

* * *

 

Kai doesn’t see Caboose for a few days. He moves almost silently through the apartment, disappearing before she can catch him. Grif doesn’t really think she owes him an apology, but he does think they need to talk.

“He’s...a lot more sensitive than you.”

“I _know that._ ”

“Well, he also takes things pretty personally. I think he really feels bad about yelling.”

“Then he should apologize.”

Grif shrugs. “He will.”

Kai shakes her head. “Whatever, I don’t have time for—”

Grif grabs her shoulder. “ _You kissed._ ”

“Ugh! Get _off_ me! What is _wrong_ with you?”

“You did, you _kissed_ and you’re grumpy because you thought you had him and now he’s fucking _slipping_ away.”

“Okay, he’s a _person_ , not a whale I’m hunting.” Kai shrugs him off. “And yeah, okay, _we kissed._ We admitted some feelings, we went to an extremely uncomfortable dinner.” She swings her hospital badge over her neck. “I’m...moving on.”

“No you’re not. You’re in love with him.”

“That’s _excessive_ , Dexter. Go to work.” She grabs her bag and opens the door — and bumps right into Caboose.

“Oh gosh. Okay. I was hoping you were here.”

Kai blinks. Behind her, Grif snorts into his coffee and disappears up the stairs.

She sighs. “Caboose, I have to go to work.”

“I will walk you. If you want.”

Kai nods. “That’s fine.” She shuts the door.

Once they’re outside, they walk in silence, yet again, but Caboose sticks close to her.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you. And I’m sorry I said you’d never understand when that’s...what you were trying to do.” They stop at an intersection. “My mom was really mad when she found out what I did. She told me that she could do it without me joining up. But it was too late, and that’s the last thing she ever said to me.”

“I’m sure someone knows where she is.”

Caboose shakes his head. “If they do, it’s a secret.”

“Then me and you will just have to figure it out.” She reaches for his hand, and Caboose reaches back. “I meant that kiss, Caboose. And I meant everything I said.”

He nods as they approach the hospital. “I meant it, too. And I...I want to—”

“Finish it.”

“ _Yes._ ” He stops and pulls her close. “Maybe not here, but—”

Kai pushes herself onto her toes and kisses him. It’s chaste, and he barely has time to kiss her back, but he’s smiling when she pulls back. “You should find me tonight. We’ll, uh—” She tugs him closer, sliding a knee between his legs. “We’ll pick up where we left off.”

“I have a very important meeting,” he whines, shifting uncomfortably.

“Then I guess you better walk that off.” She kisses his cheek before stepping back and heading inside.

 

* * *

 

Grey decided to keep Sarge under observation a few more days, so he’s still there when Kai does her rounds, but he’s starting to act more...unhinged than usual.

“He threw a _what?_ ”

“A tray.” The young girl who delivers meals does _not_ look excited about this. “He’s been very angry this week.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Kai goes into Sarge’s room and slams the door. “ _Hey!_ Stop acting like an asshole!”

“Get me the _hell_ out of here!”

“No. Not until you _promise_ me you’re going to tell Grif and Simmons and Donut what’s wrong with you.”

Sarge scowls. “I said I’d get surgery—”

“And that’s fine. But you owe them something. They’ve been there for you over and over again. What the fuck makes you think they’re not going to be there for you now?”

“I don’t need—”

“ _Fuck_ what you think you don’t need.” Kai goes to his side and puts a hand on the wall above his bed, forcing him back. “You’re a _coward_ , old man.”

He narrows his eyes. “You take that back.”

“Nuh-uh. You said it yourself.” Kai pulls back. “You’re afraid of dying. And I think you’re afraid to be honest with them. I think you’re afraid they’ll move on. I think you’re afraid that they won’t _care._ ”

Sarge growls and swipes at her, but he’s a little weak and she’s faster.

“You’re gonna have to do a lot better than that, sir.”

He sighs and leans against the pillows. “Fine. I’ll tell ‘em.”

“You swear?”

Sarge nods. “Yeah. I swear.”

“Alright.” She flips him the bird. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Shit and fall back in it,” he mutters, before returning the gesture in kind.

 

* * *

 

Kai has no idea when Caboose is going to get home, but she goes to her room and changes, pacing and trying to read and trying to do stretches and eventually giving up and laying on the bed because holy shit what if they have sex she hasn’t done that in forever and what if they talk about _feelings_ , she’s a Grif she barely managed to do it with him the other night —

Someone knocks and the door cracks open barely an inch.

“It’s me,” Caboose whispers, and Kai goes to the door and pulls him inside, shutting and locking it before yanking him down to kiss her. “ _Mmph!_ ” Caboose fumbles for a second before his hands cup her face and he kisses back, pushing her towards the bed.

Kai crawls backwards, taking him with her. She gets her hands under his shirt and pushes it up and over his head, tossing it to the side. “God you look so good.”

He pauses to stare at her, furrows his brow, then goes back to kissing. Kai moans into his mouth and shivers when his hands brush under her own shirt, fingers warm on her sides.

“Wait. Wait, wait.” He stops and Kai beats her fists on the bed.

“ _Caboose_ —”

“I need you to know how I feel.”

She groans and sits up. “You’re crazy about me, you like-like me, you wanna hold my hand, _etcetera._ Baby, _baby_ —” She pulls him close and kisses him, pulling his bottom lip between her teeth. “I feel the same way. I like you, I’ve got the biggest and _dumbest_ crush on you, and I want to _drive your car._ ”

“I really don’t know what that means.”

“Sex. It means sex.”

“Oh. Okay. I mean, I feel the same way. I want that, too. I just…” He takes a breath. “It is a lot more than that. For me. When I look at you, I...I feel a lot of things. And I look at you as often as I can because I _like_ to feel those thing. It’s...confusing and exciting all at the same time. And that’s...that’s why I have to tell you something important.” He takes a breath.

Kai’s heart skips a beat.

“Kai—”

“Caboose, I—”

“I have to leave. For...ten weeks.”

“...For _how long?_ ”

“Ten—”

“Yeah, I heard you.” She pushes him away. “That was fucking _rhetorical._ ”

“Um—”

“It means I can’t _fucking_ believe this.”

“I’m sorry. That’s...what my meeting was about today. Kimball wants me to visit all the other settlements. And she wants me to do it in a big long tour. I...I can’t tell her no. I have to do this.”

“And you wanted, what, a quick lay? Before you left?”

Caboose’s cheeks go red. “ _No_ ,” he says hotly. “I wanted you to know how I felt before I had to go.”

“For more than _two months._ ” She throws her hands up. “Do I look _stupid?_ ”

“No. You do not.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Because I love—”

“ _Don’t._ ” She points. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ because I am not the girl who sits around and waits for the first guy who tells her that to come _home._ I don’t _pine_ for people, alright? I don’t mope or sit around and hope you’ll still feel the same in ten weeks.” She picks up his shirt and tosses it at him. “Get out. This was a mistake.”

“Kai—”

“ _This was a mistake_ ,” she repeats.

Caboose sighs and pulls his shirt on. “...I leave in two days.”

“Then have a nice trip. But we are _done_ when you get back. Do you understand that?”

He nods. “I understand.” As he leaves, he stops and turns to her. “I’m not going to stop feeling this way for you. Ten weeks won’t change that. I just...I wish you believed me.”

 

* * *

 

When he’s gone, she grabs the little box with the rose quartz still inside it and chucks it at the door.

“Alright.” Grif sits down across the table from her. “You’re acting weird and dumb, so spill it.” He pulls her plate of eggs away from it. “What happened with you and Caboose?”

Kai reaches for her breakfast, but Grif pulls it back and knocks it into the floor. “Dude, what the fuck?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. You tell me.”

“I _hate_ you.”

Grif leans forward. “Here are the fact. First, you made up outside the hospital, which Donut saw because he was on his way to get a flu shot. Second, _Simmons_ saw him go into your room that night and then saw him leave, like, eight minutes later.”

“ _Eight minutes and twelve seconds!_ ” Simmons says from the living room.

“Thank you, nerd.” Grif sighs. “So? What happened?”

Kai groans. “We had a stupid fight, okay? He told me he had feelings for me, I told him I felt the same way, and then he just _drops_ this trip on me.”

“...So?”

“ _So?_ He tells me he’s in love with me before he leaves for two and a half months and I’m just supposed to roll over and let that happen?”

“He told you _what?_ ”

“I don’t wait for guys to come back, alright? I don’t sit around for weeks so they can come back and tell me they _don’t_ love me anymore because that is bullshit. Now pick up my fucking eggs.”

Grif stares at her. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Caboose didn’t tell you that because he wanted to get laid before he _left._ He told you that because he doesn’t want _you_ to stop feeling the same way while he’s gone. He took a _risk_.” Grif leans in. “What did _you_ tell him?”

Kai chews her bottom lip. “...That we’d made a mistake.”

“You’re not seventeen, Kay. You’re a grown ass woman, and sometimes the people you _love_ have to do their fucking jobs. They have to be gone, they have to say goodbye. Caboose told you he loves you because he wants to have something to come back to. He wants _you._ ” He gets up and leans down to pick up the broken plate.

“I fucked this up.”

“Well, maybe you didn’t. His ship doesn’t leave for another thirty minutes.”

“ _What?_ Why didn’t you _lead with that?_ ” She scrambles out of the chair and grabs her shoes. “ _Dammit, Dex!_ ”

“Good luck!” he shouts after her.

 

* * *

 

The elevator is taking forever, so she runs down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. It’ll take her fifteen minutes to walk to base, maybe thirteen if she sprints, so —

She sprints.

It’s been so long since she met anyone she _wanted_ to do this for. There are rules. There are restrictions. There are certain precautions that need to be taken.

And Caboose — is the exception to all of them.

She _wants_ to be mopey and bummed out when he’s gone, because she wants to be _thrilled_ when he’s back. She wants to pine and sit next to rainy windows and count down the days until his trip is over because it’ll be that much sweeter when he’s with her again.

She kind of wants to make all the first moves and all the mistakes.

And she wants to do that with him.

The guards give her a hard time when she tries to get into the base, but Katie Jensen walks past at the perfect moment and gets her inside.

“Which way to the hangar?”

“That way.” She points over her shoulder. “Everything okay?”

Kai runs in that direction. “Everything’s fine! I’ll tell you later, Katie-cakes! Gotta go!”

“Okay! Good luck!” Jensen calls after her.

Kai definitely knocks over some people she shouldn’t have — she thinks she catches Singh pushing herself up off the ground, and Sergeant Rice doing a double take — but it doesn’t _matter._ The hangar’s close, she can smell jet fuel burning, she can hear _something_ —

She skids to a stop as she throws open the doors to the hangar and sees a ship taking off, rising higher and higher above the base.

“No, no, _dammit_ , no!” She stomps her feet and groans in frustration. A few of the recruits walk a wide circle around her. “Son of a _bitch._ ” She’s too fucking late, she’s fucked this up, _she’s_ the one who’s made a mistake and now he won’t know and now she’s lost him and now they —

“...That’s not my ship.”

Kai turns, and Caboose is standing there. He points behind him.

“That’s my ship.”

She _runs_ at him.

She runs at him, full force, and he is _solid_ , not even stepping back to heft her into his arms. He kisses her, she kisses him, kisses his nose and cheeks and chin and brow while he laughs and holds her close.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t, I swear it wasn’t—” He cuts her off, pressing his lips to hers and slowly lowering her to the ground.

“It’s alright.”

“Do you really love me? Because I know it’s soon and I know you were upset, but if you _meant_ that—”

“Yes.” He brushes the hair from her face. “I do.”

Kai nods and pulls him down for another kiss. “I love you, too.”

“Is it too fast?”

“No. Not for me. Not for us.” She traces the scar on his temple with her thumb. “When have we ever done things the way you’re supposed to?”

“Rules are stupid,” he murmurs and presses his forehead to hers, gathers her hands in his own and smiles.

“I want to miss you,” she says. “I want to be sad that you’re gone and count the days until you come back because you’re _worth it._ You get that, right?”

“I do.” He laughs. “I will miss you, too.”

“ _Caboose, we have to go!_ ” Carolina steps onto the ramp leading up to the ship and tosses Smith a crate. “She’ll be here when you get back.”

“Okay!” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

Kai nods. “I know. But we’ve got unfinished business, alright? So stay safe and...and don’t—”

He kisses her again. “I’m going to come back. I promise.” He pries his hands from hers and steps back. “I love you.”

Kai _breathes._ “I love you, too. Be _careful._ ”

Carolina comes down the ramp of the ship again. “Hey, I’ve got him, alright? And he’s a big boy, he can handle himself. Come on, wheels up.”

Caboose takes another step. “I’ll be back.” He turns and follows Carolina onto the ship. Kai stays in the hangar until the ship takes off, then heads back home.

She’s...sad. She’s sad and her lips are the kind of wet-warm they can get after kissing so that sort of makes up for the sharp twinge she feels in her chest every so often.

Back in her room, she picks up the box with the rose quartz in it that she’d stashed in her dresser. She could get it cut and polished, but there’s something to be said about the rough edges that drag against the pad of thumb as she rolls in her hand.

Smiling, she takes the note from the box and sets it on her dresser before placing the stone on top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rose quartz makes you open to unconditional love.


	7. irresistible force paradox (grif)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarge goes under the knife. Grif and Simmons have two more drinks. Something breaks.

Spending time with Sarge used to be a lot less awkward — standing around in the canyon, going after the Project, hell just Sarge threatening Grif with a shotgun was comfortable, even on the follow through. But spending time with him now means a lot of strange, weird silences that Grif isn’t sure how to fill, and that Donut tries to make up for by being twice as chatty as usual.

It’s funny, Grif never thought he had anything in common with Sarge. Now he realizes that was never the case. Back then, they were part of something together. Back then, they were partners whether they wanted to be or not. They were part of a whole, whether they wanted to be or not.

They were a family, back then. Now it sort of feels like a really poorly put together reunion, and Grif doesn’t _like_ that feeling.

He _hates_ that feeling.

Sarge clears his throat and takes a drink of his juice. It’s worse that they do this at breakfast. For some reason, it’s just _so much_ worse.

“I, uh. I have something I need to tell you boys.” He takes another drink of his juice. Grif has never seen Sarge nervous before, and he’s realizing pretty quickly he doesn’t care for it. “As you know, I took a tumble last week—”

“And we are _so_ glad you’re feeling better,” Simmons says.

Grif looks at him. “You cannot _stop_ , can you?”

“Shut up,” Sarge snaps. “Now, look. This isn’t...it isn’t _easy_ for me to talk about this. So I’d just _appreciate_ it if you two idiots would can it, for two goddamn minutes. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright.” Sarge takes a breath. “I have a brain tumor. It’s, uh. It’s pretty bad. I’m gettin’ surgery for it in a few days. Technically I’m, uh. I’m not supposed to be here, but my nurse is pretty accommodatin’.” He looks at Grif in a way that Grif _doesn’t_ like.

“Is my sister your nurse?”

“Yes. Now _don’t_ get mad at her. She’s the reason I’m even doin’ this—”

“So you just _weren’t_ going to tell us?” Grif asks. “You were just going to get _brain surgery_ and drop in like, oh hey guys I had a fucking _tumor_ removed!”

“Hey!” Sarge points. “You boys don’t make it easy to find you. Alright? I’ve...I’ve been trying to pluck up to courage to say it for more than a month now, and every time—”

“We were too busy,” Simmons says. “God, Sarge, I’m so sorry—”

“Why are _you_ apologizing?” Grif says, and gets up from the table. “This is _bullshit._ You fucking berate me for years about not having the guts to do something, and then you can’t even do it yourself.” He tosses his napkin onto the table. “I’m leaving.”

“Grif!” Donut stands to go after him, but Simmons says, “Let him go.”

Grif clenches his fists hard enough for his nails to almost cut into his palms.

He kind of wishes someone had asked him to stay.

 

* * *

 

“Captain, you have a visitor.”

“Angelica, for the _last time_ , I am _busy_ —” Grif turns and Sarge is standing in the doorway. “Oh. Uh, right. Almost forgot.”

After breakfast, Grif had gone to his office and proceeded to ignore Simmons and Donut for the next fourteen hours.

“Talk to Sarge,” Simmons had said. “He’s _trying._ You have to understand how hard this is for him. He might...he might not make it.”

Grif had said something incredibly rude and incredibly mean back to him and Simmons didn’t speak to him for three hours, until Grif agreed to have Sarge come to his office so they could talk it out.

Now, Sarge clears his throat, looking terribly out of place in the clean white lines of Grif’s capitol building office, the one he did not want, and is still trying to get the permission to paint a better color. Maybe a shade of red.

“Forgot how big this one was.”

“Simmons’ is bigger.”

“He’s mentioned it.” Sarge points to a chair. “Can I sit? Or are you gonna toss me on my ass?”

Grif sighs. “No, sir. Have a seat.” Grif sits in his own chair and tosses his tablet to the side. “I’m...sorry, about the other day. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Sure you do. You got mad as hell because you think I’ve treated you like shit.”

“That is not an _opinion_ I have, Sarge. That’s an objective fucking _fact._ You were a terrible mentor, an _awful_ commanding officer. You nearly got us killed a hundred times with your completely bonkers ideas. You don’t understand the chain of command, you don’t respect me as an officer _or_ a human, and you think _threatening me_ is an appropriate form of peer-to-peer communication!” Grif slams his hand on the desk.

“...What’s your point?”

“I don’t fucking know.” Grif gets up and goes to the window. He’s got a nice view of the city out here. Glass blocks a lot of the sound. It’s cool, too, when he puts his forehead against it. “...Are you afraid of dying?” he asks.

Sarge’s voice sounds right next to him. Grif hadn’t even realized he’d gotten out of his seat. “Yes.”

“What about all that, _today is a good day to die_ crap?”

“Back then it might have been. But I don’t know if I really want that. It’s how we were trained, you understand that.”

“Not me.”

“Nah.” Sarge puts his hands in his pockets, leans his shoulder against the glass. “You’re too young for that garbage. Back in my day, that’s what we were told. You die in battle, you’ve died honorably. Wastin’ away in a hospital somewhere—” He shakes his head. “Nothin’ dignified about that.”

“But you’re afraid.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

Sarge sighs. “Because I always felt like...the world I was living in, that was the last thing I needed to see. Now I look at Chorus and I think about other planets—” He stops. Laughs. “You know? I’ve never been to earth.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Wasn’t born there. I’m a spacer, like Caboose. Born on a colony. When we landed to fight Temple, that was the first time I’d been there. Properly. Had a few training exercises, but I never left the inside of a base or saw the sky. Never been to one of earth’s beaches or seen one of its sunsets. I was born on a Christian colony, I went into the military, and that’s...all my life has been.” He glances at Grif. “When you talk about home, I get jealous.”

“I’m...sorry. Did you just...say you were jealous of me?”

Sarge scowls. “Don’t let it go to your head, moron. I don’t wanna die and that’s that. I wanna see things.”

Grif steps back from the window and folds his arms over his chest. “Okay. Like what?”

“Dunno. One more wedding. A real football game. Some prissy musical, just to see what the fuss is all about.” He sighs. “I wanna go to a zoo. A _real_ zoo. Somethin’...proper. I wanna get onto a ship at sea and know it isn’t gonna end in a beach landing with half my friends bein’ blow to pieces.

“I just...wanna see a little part of the universe. And then I can die. Then, I won’t be afraid.”

Grif sighs. “I want to help you.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do. Look, after your surgery, which is _going_ to go totally fine, and after you’re recovered we’ll...we’ll do our best. Me, Simmons, Donut. Fuck, even the Blues—” He stops. “Oh man. Oh sir, I know you’re gonna hate me even more, but you—”

“Absolutely not.”

“You gotta tell Caboose.”

“What? Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Sir, he fucking loves you.”

“He isn’t _here_.”

“Get a message to him! Look, I can pull some strings, I’ll talk to someone. You gotta tell the Blues though.”

“I will _not._ ”

“Sarge—” Grif steps forward. He’s taller than Sarge. Always has been. “Don’t make me sick my sister on you.”

“... _Fine._ ” Sarge turns to and stomps out of the office and Grif thinks he must be going crazy — but he’s a little endeared by the _dirtbag_ he hears as Sarge slams the door.

 

* * *

 

Since the tram station was destroyed by the bomb, three more of their empty stations were hit. Simmons is getting stressed, and Grif knows that wherever Carolina is, she’s probably doing that nervous tick thing she thinks no one has noticed, the one where she chews on the edge of the nail of her middle finger. It’s subtle, but Grif spent his life picking up on weird habits the adults around him had so he could get away with being fourteen and living alone with his sister.

But things have calmed down. The last two attacks came in rapid succession, right after Carolina and Caboose left for their trip. They’ve been gone for two weeks, and Grif’s gotten one message from Carolina that reads _i will end these fuckers; caboose is sad about sarge._

“Guess that means he told them.”

“Huh?” Simmons looks up from his tablet. They’re overseeing the last of the support structures going into one of the rebuilt stations.

Grif holds up his tablet. “I told Sarge he needed to tell the Blues. Guess he did.”

“Yeah. Surgery’s tomorrow. We should be there when he wakes up.”

“His neuro said it could be a while.”

Simmons raises a brow. “You talked to his neuro?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to check. He was pretty mum on it, but we’re listed as Sarge’s emergency contacts apparently—”

“In what order?”

Grif sighs. “Dude, seriously?”

“I’m just _asking._ I can _ask_ that question.”

“I have no fucking clue. Ask my sister.”

Simmons nods. “Alright I will.” He makes a note and Grif groans. “I’m _just. Wondering._ ”

“You’re a _huge. Loser._ ” Grif moves past him. “Hey, Sandesky! That looks good!”

“ _Thanks Captain!_ ”

“Alright, we’re done.”

Simmons shakes his head. “We need to check the other two stations and see if the paint’s been added.”

“Okay, but _then_ we’re done.”

“Yes, _fine._ Then we’re done.”

They walk out together and head south toward the other two stations. Everything’s gotten done on time, it’s all in basically pristine condition, and Grif feels like it’s been a really stressful two days.

“We should get drinks.”

“Grif, it’s four in the afternoon.”

“Round that up and it’s five.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “That isn’t how _math_ works,” he says, but he follows anyway. Once they’ve sat down he admits, “Okay. A beer would be nice.”

“Damn right it would.” Grif orders for them and leans back in his chair. “So what’s up with your dad?”

“Ugh.”

“Hey, I’m not going to just forget about that, alright? You were super upset, talk to me.”

Simmons shrugs. “Nothing’s changed. He’s still sick. I still think he should die and rot in hell. Case closed.” The server sets down their beers and Grif orders cheese sticks. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m _hungry._ So you’re really not gonna call him?”

“I’m _really_ not.”

“Alright.” Grif takes a long swig of his beer. “Probably for the best. You’d just say something nerdy like _this is not the son you’re looking for_ or whatever.”

“Why would I made an amended Star Wars reference at my father?”

“What, you guys don’t think you have like a Luke and Darth Vader thing going?”

Simmons looks _offended_. “Absolutely not!”

Grif nods. “Yeah, okay. I mean it would probably help if I’d _watched_ Star Wars—”

Simmons slams his beer on the table. “You’re right. I’ve let this transgression go on long enough. Take your nasty cheese sticks to go. We’re getting two bottles of tequila and watching Star Wars.”

Grif stares. “...That is the coolest you’ve ever been. Counting the time you tried to save me from falling off a cliff.”

“I know.” Simmons drains his beer in three swallows.

Grif absolutely does not watch the muscles of his neck work.

“Alright. Let’s do this.”

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Grif plays “two truths and a lie” with himself.

The statements: he doesn’t love Simmons, there was never a process of _falling_ in love with Simmons, and he absolutely hates frozen yogurt.

The last one is a lie.

Dexter Grif loves frozen yogurt.

And he can pinpoint exactly when the whole _falling in love with Simmons_ thing started. It was in basic, meeting him for the first time, going on that stupid mission, and fucking it all up. There was like this weird noise Simmons made when something startled him and Grif thought to himself, before he could stop it, _that’s cute_ , and just hasn’t been doing very well since.

But the weird thing is — the _weirdest part_ — being in love with Simmons never stopped him from wanting to be friends with Simmons. Because he didn’t go after him with Locus just because he loved him. And Grif didn’t stop Gene from _killing_ Simmons because he _loved him._

And he didn’t remember some of their best conversations just because he _loved him_ —

Simmons is his best friend. Simmons is the oldest friend he’s ever had. And there are days when the sure thing of being his friend is better to have than the fragility of confession. Because telling someone that you’ll die for them because they’ve always been there and you know them better than sometimes you know yourself is one thing. Telling them you’ll die for them, actually _killing_ for them, because you _love them_ is something else entirely.

Grif isn’t sure he’s ready to touch that. He isn’t sure he’s ready to lose his friend.

Because that’s...what being in love does, right?

That’s how it happens.

That’s why you can never be friends after its over. You have to kill your friend to make them into the person you love.

And Grif can’t kill Simmons.

He just...isn’t ready to say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

“Your father is going to make a full recovery.”

Grif sighs. “Sarge is not our dad, and we are not related.”

“Oh!” Dr. Moon looks at her chart. “Huh. Intake nurse totally misread you guys.”

Donut sighs. “Well, I always thought we bore a striking resemblance—”

“We don’t, Donut. Stop it.” Grif turns to Moon. “When you say full recovery—”

“I mean this operation hasn’t left him comatose. We didn’t seem to impact any major nerve centers. His vision is going to drastically improve, and he’ll still be able to speak.”

“Aw, that’s so nice!” Donut grins. “I’m sure he would have been really bummed about that last part.”

“Yeah, what a tragedy it would have been if he couldn’t call me _meatsack_ every day until he died.”

Dr. Moon looks between them. “...I have to go.” She turns and walks down the hall. Grif and Donut step into Sarge’s room.

“Where’s Simmons?” Donut asks.

“Stuck in a budget meeting. He’s pissed.”

“Right. Makes sense. Hey, were you guys drunk binging Star Wars the other day?”

“Yes.”

Donut nods. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Kind of a weird date though don’t you think?”

“For the six hundredth time this month, Simmons and I are not dating. We have _never_ dated. We _will never_ date.”

“Saying never is a really bad idea. I mean, I said I’d never be friends with Wash, and now we take a spanish class together.”

Grif pulls up a chair next to Sarge’s bed. “Why?”

“Part of his deal for forgiveness with Lopez. Also it turns out my spanish is _atrocious._ I had no idea!”

“Yeah I’ve heard you.”

“Did you know _aeropuerto_ doesn’t mean—”

“Donut I speak spanish. I know it means airport.”

Donut huffs. “Well I _didn’t._ ”

“Hey!” Kai sticks her head in the room, whisper-screaming at them. “This is a fucking recovery wing you assholes. Have some respect.” She steps in and shuts the door. “Natalie says he’s fine.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Moon.”

“Gotcha. The surgery was okay?” Kai nods. “Did you see any of it?”

“I was there when he went under. He told me to tell you guys that if he dies he’s gonna haunt your asses like Church did.”

Grif sighs. “Church was a computer program.”

“I think it was more about the message.” Kai looks between them. “How’re you guys coping?”

“We’re fine.” Donut shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s not...weird, to see Sarge in a bed, super still, not moving, with bandages on his head.” He reaches up and scratches the scars over his ear. “I’m...gonna buy a soda. I’ll be back.” He gets up, nearly knocking the chair over, and runs from the room.

Kai takes his seat. “Donut’s weird.”

“He nearly had his head blown off. He’s allowed to be weird.” Grif stretches and feels his sister grab his free hand. “How’re you holding up? I know you miss your boo.”

“Ugh, never say that again.” She crosses her legs. “I’m fine. I miss him, duh. But you know. I’m getting through it.”

“Wishing he could call you?”

“I get that it’s to keep him safe, but like. Yes. Hearing Caboose’s voice would be kind of nice.” Kai looks at her watch. “Okay, I have to check out his vitals and stuff. Why don’t you go grab a drink or something while I work, you can come back in ten minutes.”

Grif nods, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before he heads out.

The vending machines are at the end of the hall and Grif’s got a card that lets him get whatever he wants — government perks, or something. A few nurses move out of his way and he catches Donut by the machines, leaning against the glass, talking to Wash. Their body language is distant and basically normal, until Donut laughs at something, moving into Wash’s space, and Wash reaches out and touches Donut’s shoulder.

It is disarmingly intimate, considering how brief the touch is, how quickly the moment passes. Wash moves on, and Donut turns and seems to watch him go.

Grif just sort of stares until someone jostles him on their way down the hall and he remembers that standing perfectly still in the middle of busy places is a bad idea. So he goes to the machines and gets a soda and a candy bar and tries to be normal.

“Was that Wash?”

“Yeah, he has therapy here a few times a week. Told me to tell Sarge he’ll be by later, if he wakes up.”

“Right. So you guys are like...friends now?”

Donut shrugs. “We’re working things out. He’s been relaxed about everything, and we set some ground rules. Safeword, all that.”

Grif chokes on his coke. “Are you guys _banging?_ ”

“What? No! The safeword is for when we talk about the incident and if one of us starts feeling uncomfy, we stop! Jeez, Grif!” Donut shakes his head and takes a drink of some bright blue thing he’s bought. “You know, I think _someone’s_ got some pent up sexual frustration. If you need to picture me and Wash together because you feel guilty about Simmons, that’s fine.”

“What the fuck? I don’t feel _guilty_ about Simmons.”

“I mean I can see why you’d want to hold off telling him how you feel. Your friendship is pretty intense.”

“Donut, please stop talking.”

“And you’re probably worried that you might not have the same energy or connection.”

Grif shoves Donut into the machine. “Shut. _Up._ And you’ve got blue shit on your teeth.” He turns and heads back to Sarge’s room.

 

* * *

 

Grif takes off from the hospital and winds up in his office until after dark. It’s nearly ten when Simmons comes in, holding a bottle of something and two glasses.

“What is this, _Mad Men?_ ” Grif asks.

“Is Angelica blowing you under your desk?”

“Absolutely not.”

Simmons laughs. “Then I guess it’s just you and me. Having a drink.” He pours and passes the glass over the desk. “Cheers.”

Grif takes a sip. “You just get back from seeing Sarge?” Simmons nods. “How is he?”

“Groggy. Pretty out of it. Did you know Sarge speaks French?”

Grif laughs. “I’m not fuckin’ surprised.” He drains his glass and reaches for the bottle. “We drink a lot together. Like old men.”

“We’re not old.”

“Nah, but it feels like we’re gettin’ there.”

Simmons hasn’t done much drinking. He’s looking thoughtfully into the glass, swirling the whiskey around before he takes the smallest sip in the world. Grif kicks him under the desk. “ _Ow!_ ”

“What’s on your mind?”

“That I hate you and doing nice things for you is always a bad idea.”

Grif snorts. “Come on.”

Simmons groans and downs his drink in one go. “I’m...going to see if I can move my dad here.”

“...Are you serious?”

Simmons nods. “He’s sick.”

“But you said he was an asshole. You said you wanted him to _rot._ ”

“I did. And...I still feel that way. But Grif you...you will never get to meet my mom and honestly I think you’re worse off for it.”

“Weird thing to say, considering that’s not my fault.”

Simmons sets his glass on the table. “No, I just mean...look. My mom was this incredible woman, and my dad was _cruel_ to her. He sucked the life out of our house, he hit her and he hit me. But when he was gone, she _never_ said a bad word against him. He’d come to visit and she’d always tell me to be respectful, to not pick fights. And I know that’s...that’s some kind of thing. I know she was hurting and I know maybe she felt like she couldn’t say anything, but she was that way with the whole _fucking_ world.

“And every time I think about that piece of shit dying alone, I think that she’d be disappointed.”

He pours another drink, swallows it all.

Grif scrapes a nail down the side of the glass. “You don’t have to forgive. And you don’t have to forget.”

“Exactly.”

Grif nods. “I get that.”

“...You do?”

“Yeah.” He stands and leans over to pluck the glass from Simmons’ hand. “We shouldn’t drink ourselves into a stupor up here. Let’s go somewhere, we’ll get some beers, we’ll call Donut and Tucker and everyone and we’ll...enjoy being alive, I guess. And the fact that we’re not the shitheads our dads were.”

Simmons nods and stands. “Sounds like a plan. Hey, maybe we can end up at that karaoke bar again.”

“I didn’t _want_ to hear Donut do the girl’s part from that _Grease_ song then, and I _don’t_ want to hear it now.” Grif shuts the door to his office and they head toward the elevator. It’s a slow one, and Simmons spends the twenty-four second ride talking in the softest voice, leaning against the fake wood wall. His shoelace is loose and his hair is starting to grow over his ears and Grif wonders if his friend knows he’s kind of letting himself go.

He wants to reach out and push the hair behind Simmons’ ear and tell him he has fifteen freckles, just _there._

The doors open and they step out into the lobby. Simmons stops and turns. “I need...to tell you something. I’ve needed to tell you this for a while and I think maybe tonight is kind of perfect—”

And then his voice becomes the most painful ringing Grif has ever heard. He feels the _heat_ before he even registers the blast. They both get thrown across the room, Grif absolutely smashes into a sofa, which careens toward a window and hits it with a resounding _crack._ There’s an awful taste in his mouth, brutally familiar — just blood, seeping into the hollows of his cheeks, flooding across his tongue, flying when he calls for Simmons.

Simmons is crawling, using his human arm and leg to push himself across the floor, to get to Grif — his prosthetics are a wreck, sparking and twitching and suddenly Simmons begins to _howl_ , gripping the arm and pulling at it, trying to rip it off.

The howling is the last thing Grif remembers, before he wakes up in a white, white room, with a monitor telegraphing his existence into empty space.

 

* * *

 

“Alright, just _breathe._ ”

“Kai, it _hurts._ ”

“It’s _going_ to,” she snaps. “I’m changing your dressings just relax and let me finish, I have six other people to see.”

Grif groans and keeps his arm out so his sister can properly redress his burns. “Is that silver?”

“It’s Silvadene, it’s for wound healing.”

“I thought that was fake.”

“Would you _please_ shut up?”

Grif scowls. “Fine.” He sits in silence until she’s done, then lets her pull his blanket back up. “How’s Simmons?”

“Out again. Grey is worried about nerve and brain damage. The arm and leg got toasted, and the eye sent some pretty serious feedback that she can’t totally assess. They’re doing a scan tonight, but the neuro thinks he’s gonna pull through.” Kai chews her lip. “Are you feeling okay?”

“No. I got blasted. I feel like shit.”

“I meant...about Simmons.”

“God, you’re worse than _Donut._ ”

“Grif, stop it.” She pulls up a chair. “When I was confused about Caboose and making all the wrong choices _you_ were there for me.”

“How is he?”

“He’s okay. Arcadia bums him out and we can’t talk because Carolina’s worried about the attackers knowing his schedule, so it’s mostly just an encrypted email I can’t reply to every six days.”

“Kinky.”

“ _Grif._ ”

He leans back against the pillow and counts the dots in the ceiling tiles. His sister is stubborn, and she will sit at his side all day until he tells her something that isn’t just straight denial.

“...You remember when mom made you get rid of all your stuffed dolphins?”

“That makes me sound super gross and creepy, but yeah. We were moving apartments and I was thirteen.”

“Right. You weren’t playing with them anymore and we were going to have to share a room and all the space we had was the back of her boyfriend’s truck.”

“Kenny Kapule.”

“That was him.” Grif looks at her and smiles. “Remember though? We were putting them in boxes? And you already knew, like, way too much about life and shit, and you just kept saying—”

“I know it’s time to move on, but I really like being the girl with seventeen stuffed dolphin toys.”

“Must be some kinda record,” Grif finishes, and Kai laughs.

“I still miss those. They were like a security blanket. You could just fall right into those little shits. Totally fucking comforted.” She takes Grif’s hand in hers. “I don’t really...get it though.”

He shrugs. It hurts. “I just...I sometimes _know_ that me and Simmons are headed down this road. Because I...feel. A certain way. And I know he does, too.” He squeezes her hand. “I know it’s time to move on,” he says. “But I really like being the guy who has a friend as good as Simmons.”

“Oh, _Dex._ ” Kai lifts his hand and kisses his knuckles. “Honey.” She reaches out and brushes the tears from his cheek, which he knew were there, but he’s been too tired to stop a lot of bodily functions from happening today. Neuro says his wires are crossed.

Kai keeps her hand on his cheek as she gets up and leans down to kiss his forehead. “Must be some kinda record,” she says, before leaving him alone so he can rest.

 

* * *

 

Grif wakes up and Agent Washington is reading a book by his bead.

“Ugh, why?”

Wash looks up. “Hello to you, too.”

“Water?”

“Here.” Wash stands and gets the cup from beside the bed and fills it, helping Grif sit up straight to drink. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Grif wipes his mouth and sets the cup down. “Where’s Donut?”

“Getting coffee. He—” Wash stops. “Why do you assume—”

“That was a trick question. You’re glued to the hip and I saw you flirting by the vending machines.”

Wash frowns. “That wasn’t...I don’t remember…”

“Nevermind, I forgot your brain is kinda broken.”

Wash sits down. “...Do I flirt with Donut?”

“I’ve seen it one time. You touched his shoulder and he definitely watched your ass while you were walking away.”

“...Huh.” Wash picks up his book. “Interesting.”

Grif sighs. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Do you know how Simmons is doing?”

“He’s in surgery.”

“ _In surgery?!_ ”

“Jesus!” Wash nearly jumps out of his chair and Grif dissolves into a coughing fit. Wash waits and then gets him another cup of water. “He’s having his prosthetics replaced. New arm, new leg, new eye. The...the blast just kind of. Fried everything. Kai said it was amazing that they were even still functioning at this point.”

“Simmons does a lot of his own repairs. He’s good at stuff like that.” Grif leans back. “Is he going to be okay? Kai said something about his brain and the neuro was worried—”

“They did an MRI and didn’t find any damage, so Grey put together a team and she’s letting them handle it.”

“Okay.”

Wash leans in. “I know you’re worried, but don’t let that stop you from getting better.”

“I’m literally leaving in like two days. I’m fine.”

“You’re not _fine._ You and your friend were standing not _thirty feet_ from a small explosive device, designed to send a message that instead could have _killed you._ ” Wash stands. “You’re not okay, you’re hurt. You’re not doing _just fine_ , you’re in pain and you’re _mad_ about it. Stop trying to be the one who’s fine.”

“Simmons—”

“Is dealing with his own thing. You’re not _attached_ to him, Grif. You don’t have to be well for him.”

Grif shakes his head. “One of us should—”

“Stop.” Wash puts a hand on Grif’s shoulder that isn’t burnt. “Just...stop,” he says, more gently this time. “Rushing this won’t make Simmons get better any quicker. And if you aren’t there when he wakes up, he isn’t going to think any less of you.”

Grif looks at him sharply.

Wash sighs. “I’ve been going to a lot of therapy. I’m sorry.” He sits back down.

Grif sinks into the pillows. “He...had something to tell me. What if he reads into this? What if he thinks the explosion’s a sign, or what if he forgets—” He’s spiraling. He hates spiraling.

Wash laughs. “Hey. I feel like I know you guys enough by now to say without a doubt that if Simmons had something to tell you...he’s going to tell you. Maybe it’ll take more time, now. You’ve both got some recovery to get through, but I believe that he’ll say it. I believe you’ll get to hear it.” Wash stands and pours Grif another cup of water and hands it to him. “I believe you’re going to get what you want.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh my gosh. You and Sarge are wheelchair buddies!”

“Donut? Can it.”

Sarge huffs. “At least I can push mine.”

“I have _limited mobility_ , you fucking—”

A nurse shushes them, and they resort to dirty looks.

“And we’re here!” Donut announces. “Hey, Simmons! I got ‘em both.”

Simmons is in the middle of having someone test his new leg. He turns, showing off the bandages around his face.

“Thanks, Donut. Guys, this is Dr. Karp. He made these!” Simmons shows off his arm, which is a lot smoother looking than his old one. “Dr. Karp, Sarge made all my old stuff.”

“Did he now?” Karp stands and makes a note on his tablet. “Well, sir, I have to say you did a fine job, considering.”

“Considerin’ _what?_ ”

“Ignore him,” Grif says. “That’s what we do.”

Dr. Karp nods. “Fair enough. Now, I’ll have a nurse look at those dressings and I’m going to see what I’ve got available in the OR this week.” He smiles at them and heads out.

“I don’t like him,” Sarge grumbles.

“He was paying you a compliment, sir.” Simmons swings his legs back into bed. “He was really impressed with the old stuff. He even kept it so he could shame his interns.”

“...Well. Good.”

Simmons laughs, then looks at Grif. “Are you doing okay? Kai said you got banged up pretty bad.”

“I’m fine.”

Donut rolls his eyes. “Oh _sure._ He just had three broken ribs and a fractured collarbone and some internal bleeding and a _mild concussion._ ”

Simmons raises a brow and Grif’s sighs. “Yes, that is true. Yes, I have to be here two more weeks. Yes, I am busting us both out as soon as you have your new face.”

“Eye.”

“You sure? Might wanna ask about a new face.”

Simmons chucks his water cup and Grif laughs until the nurse comes in to change the dressing covering Simmons’ eye and shoo them out of the room.

 

* * *

 

Simmons spends an extra week in the hospital after Grif. Grif comes by to visit each day, usually with a crossword puzzle or a card game.

“There’s a typo in thirty-five down,” Simmons mutters. “Who’s writing these?”

“Look, I didn’t know Chorus had a newspaper until three weeks ago.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot.”

“Yes, but I’m _your_ idiot, so.”

Simmons stops, his pen hovering over the paper before he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “My idiot.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Simmons is discharged, Grif’s become a well-known customer of the little paper kiosk in the lobby of the hospital, and the man who runs it waves bye to him as he walks Simmons out.

“Look, reading helped you make friends.”

“That’s a fucking lie.”

“Alright, alright.” They walk toward the apartment. When they finally get inside, it’s empty, and Grif takes a breath and enjoys the silence before Simmons says, “I’m exhausted.”

“Same.”

“I need a nap, _god._ ” He drops his papers onto the kitchen counter and starts heading up the stairs, pausing halfway up. “...You comin’?”

Grif nods and follows him. Simmons’ room is tidy and cool, the shades still down and blocking out the light. He tugs off his shirt and sits on the bed with a groan, reaching behind him and pressing the release for his arm, revealing the new hookups Dr. Karp put in. Grif’s impressed. It looks good.

“Hurts?”

“Just...a lot of feedback right now. Karp said I could take a break when I needed. Leg’s fine, and so’s the eye, but this _arm._ ” With another groan he pushes himself onto the bed and stretches out.

Grif goes to the other side and stretches out next to him. It’d be so easy to say it, so easy to ask, _Hey before we got blown up you were going to tell me something?_

But he doesn’t. He just lays there, listening to the sound of Simmons breathing, glad he still gets to hear it.

“I told Grey about my dad,” Simmons says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“She’s got someone who can help him. He’s pretty sick it seems like, but she said they can make him comfortable.”

“Did you tell her you didn’t want that?”

“No, I want her to like me and do me this ridiculously huge favor, so I did _not_ tell her that I’d be fine if my dad fell into a hole and died there.” He turns to Grif. “But I can tell you that.”

“Yes you can.”

They look at one another it would just —

It would be so _easy_ to lean right in. To do what he wants. To _get_ what he wants.

“Thank you,” Simmons says.

“For what?”

“...Everything.” He smiles and turns his head to face the ceiling again before closing his eyes. Grif looks away.

It would be easy to get what he wants, but right now he has to give what Simmons _needs_ — support, validation, forgiveness, a listening ear.

“Hey, it’s nothing,” Grif says. “I’m here for you.”

He closes his eyes.

“I’m always here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway i know there's a thing about sarge being from iowa, but i reject this reality and substitute my own. there's two many characters in this show from iowa.


	8. go slowly with me now (caboose)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A primer course in bullet proof vests, a union two months in the making, and some questions. Not necessarily in that order.

It isn’t his first memory, but it’s definitely one of his favorites. Caboose remembers sitting in the living room and he’s six years old, his nose bleeding and dripping onto his jeans.

“ _Mijo_ ,” his mother says, and clucks her tongue, kneeling down to clean the blood from his face. “Why are you fighting again?”

“ _Stupid_ Danny said we were trash, and _that’s_ not very nice and then he pushed me and I was going to push back, but I got so _mad_ —”

“Shh. It’s alright. I understand. You were standing up for your family.” She looks at his shirt and sighs. “Come on, let’s get that off of you.”

In the laundry room, she picks him up and sets him on the counter, taking off the shirt and jeans and blotting them with something to get out the blood. “Violence isn’t the answer, _mi amor._ When you’re angry with someone you should listen to them. Sometimes they have very good reasons for the things they do. Other times they don’t, and it’s better to just walk away.” She smiles and tugs on his ear. “Can you listen, Miguel?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She helps him off the counter. “Now go to your room and change. You’ll tell papa what happened when he gets home.”

“Yes, _mamá._ ”

That was always his mother’s advice. To listen first, hit never. She couldn’t abide violence. She couldn’t abide war. She couldn’t abide anger that came from nowhere.

Caboose was the only boy, and so _mijo_ was always just for him. When he hears it, even now that he is grown and so few people around him speak anything other than English, he gets a warm feeling in his chest. On a ship bound for yet another settlement, he closes his eyes and remembers the exact way his mother used to speak, the soft, lilting tones of her voice that had names just for him.

 

* * *

 

“We were _told_ by President Kimball’s office that the shipments would arrive three days ago.”

“And unfortunately we had to scramble our travel schedule,” Carolina says. “You were notified.”

“We’d made _plans_ around that shipment. Why are you making excuses?”

“The capitol has suffered a string of bombings. We’re concerned someone may go after the shipments next. This was done entirely for your own safety, and the safety of the colonel.”

Caboose feels sort of uncomfortable when people call him that, but the governor of this settlement, Nadiya, glances at him and her expression softens. People do like him. He’s learned that over the last several months.

“It’s been a stressful year,” Nadiya says. “We’ve barely been able to keep people happy, I’ve lost a hundred settlers to either the capitol or another UNSC venture. I can’t...I can’t keep going like this.”

Caboose puts a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s hard,” he says. “But you are doing a _really_ good job. You’re trying your best.”

Nadiya smiles at him. “Thank you, colonel.”

“Would you like us to stay an extra day? We can spend some extra time.”

Carolina says, “Caboose—” but he holds up a hand.

Nadiya glances between them. “Is that...is that alright?”

“Yes.” Caboose stands. “We have the time.”

“Then I would very much like that. Can I show you the food bank after lunch?” Caboose nods. “Alright. I’ll meet you here in an hour or so.” Nadiya and stands and heads out of the little office they’ve been given to work from.

Carolina waits until the door is shut before she says, “We don’t have that time, Caboose.”

“We’ll find it.”

“It could keep us traveling a few extra days.” She opens the tab of her drink. “Is that what you want?”

“I want to do what is right,” he says. “And what is right is staying and helping them. They feel alone.”

Carolina’s expression softens. “Caboose, you can’t let every place we stop at remind you of home.”

“They don’t all do that.”

“Plenty of them seem to.”

He shrugs. “I know what I’m doing. If we help these people, then they will like Kimball more. And Kimball needs to be around to help them, because she cares. She didn’t mean to forget Arcadia. But no more mistakes.”

“No more mistakes,” Carolina says, and reaches across the table to take his hand.

 

* * *

 

He gets to send one message every week to Kaikaina, who he thinks about every single day. He thinks about how beautiful she is, how she doesn’t think he’s stupid, how she loves him and misses him and can’t wait to see him. The message can’t be very long, and she can never send one back, so he keeps it very simple: _i miss you and i love you._

She has to be reading them, he thinks. She has to be looking at them and thinking of him. Sometimes at night he rolls onto his side and wraps a hand around his cock and thinks about how they were so close to being together that time, how he’d gotten hard against her leg and how it felt to have her hands carding through his hair. How the inside of her mouth tasted sweet when he swept his tongue across it.

It’s easy to close his eyes and imagine himself over her, easier still to imagine her on top, riding him so he could see her breasts, see her face as she would tip her head back and laugh and moan and sigh.

Caboose has been in love before — he loved Jason Yee when they were in middle school together on the moon and Jason was on the baseball team with him and they kissed behind the team storage shed. He loved Owen Cross when they were in math together in the tenth grade and Owen would come over to help him with homework and they walked to the mailboxes at the end of the street and held hands and kissed under the fake starry sky of the dome that covered the colony. He loved Elizabeth Cohen when they went to prom together his senior year and they snuck away to look at Earth and he had sex for the first time and she cried a little because things were falling apart around them and she was moving to a new colony at the end of the week.

Caboose has been in love, but he’s never been in this kind of love. The kind where you ache, starting in some soft corner of your heart before you begin to ache in your lungs and your bones and suddenly it is everywhere and you _miss_ that person with every single nerve ending you have left.

The ache goes away when he comes, for just a minute. The ache goes away when he presses send on and encrypted email, for just a bit. The ache goes away when he finds something she might like and puts it in a box that he carries from place to place, for just a little while.

It comes back when he counts the weeks he has left and realizes he has made his trip longer because Carolina is right —

Every other settlement, town, and city they go to reminds him of home.

And a new ache grows in the same old spots, like weeds in a garden that threaten to overtake.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think Church would be proud of me?” Caboose looks over at Carolina on the ship while she’s reading over some blueprints from the town they’re about the land in.

She glances up. “I think so. He wouldn’t say it right off the bat.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“But I think he’d be proud of all the hard work you’re doing. You’re really doing something good here, Caboose. _I’m_ proud to be with you.”

Caboose smiles. “I’m happy you feel that way.” He leans back and takes a nap until the pilot announces they’re landing, before he gets up to help Smith and the others with the surprise.

“It’s a big one, sir,” Smith says.

Caboose looks through the packages. Lots of medicine, lots of food and clothes. And books, which Caboose doesn’t see very often.

Carolina comes to stand next to him. “They were hit hard in the war. They had a flu outbreak a couple months ago. It’s mostly gone, but I want everyone in their armor. We can’t risk infection.”

Caboose nods and takes off his glasses before suiting up. He enjoys the days when he gets to wear his armor and his helmet. Kind of reminds him of the way it used to be.

Carolina was absolutely right that this town, Heracles, was hit hard in the war. It looks better than Arcadia did when they first visited, but it’s still a mess in parts as they fly over, looking for a place to land.

No one talks much as they help unload supplies. There’s really no leader here, either. An older gentleman, Victor, leads them through the town. He wears a mask over his nose and mouth while pointing out small things they’ve done here and there.

“We felt the library was an important centerpiece for our rebuilding effort. There are very few children here, so we can’t justify having a school yet, but we have a handful of teachers who have been dedicated to providing them with the best education possible. And they enjoy the services we offer. Group readings, art projects. A movie night, on occasion.” He’s very proud of the the building itself and of their small collection of books.

When he talks about how the mercenaries burned several shelves, just for fun, he has to turn away to stifle a sob.

Caboose feels a brand new ache starting to grow.

Victor and Carolina head towards the exit, but Caboose gets lost between the stacks, the shelves mostly empty, though someone is trying to adhere to a system of organization. A few books, in groups or by themselves, rest on shelves that are labeled with their Dewey Decimal number and by author’s last name. They had a library on the moon, and Caboose would walk some of his younger sisters there on Sundays to have cookies and be read to. He was too old by that point, his father always said, but he enjoyed the time as much as the girls did, chewing on oatmeal raisin cookies and listening to a librarian read from a book that she continued reading week to week.

It was one of his few connections to Earth — the books that had been written there. He especially loved _A Wrinkle In Time_ , and would often write down his favorite parts. He was twelve when he came home one day and told his mother, “Nothing is hopeless. We must hope for everything.”

“Very wise words, _mijo_. Very wise indeed.”

Caboose is about to ask the librarian if they have a copy of the book, when he rounds a corner in the stacks and here’s a voice calling from the back of the library, “ _Mijo!_ Arturo, where did you go?”

Caboose turns, looking for the voice, and finds a little boy looking up at him.

“Oh. Oh gosh.”

The boy just stares.

Caboose hears the woman calling again, then looks back at the boy. “Is that your mom?” The boys nods. Caboose kneels down in front of him and asks in spanish, “ _Are you Arturo?_ ”

“Arturo!” The woman stops just behind her son. “ _Mijo_ , what are you doing—”

“ _Mamá, I think this is the colonel._ ”

“ _The colonel doesn’t speak spanish, Arturo, leave him alone._ ”

“ _Yes,_ ” Caboose says quickly. “ _Yes, I do._ ” He reaches for the seals of his helmet and takes it off. “ _My name is Michael J. Caboose._ ” He takes off his glove and holds out his hand. “ _It’s very nice to meet you, Arturo._ ”

Arturo smiles. “ _It’s nice to meet you, too._ ”

“Caboose!” Carolina suddenly appears. “I thought you were with us, you need to put your helmet back on.”

“Sorry.” He stands quickly and listens for the seals to close on his helmet before putting his glove by on. He waves at Arturo and his mother and says in spanish, _“Have a good day_ ,” before following Carolina out of the building.

 

* * *

 

They’re in a new place a few days later, a much nicer town that wasn’t hit too hard in the war. It has a grocery store and they get a nice apartment to stay in with a kitchen, so Carolina makes them breakfast for dinner and they sit together in a companionable silence and eat.

When the dishes are done, she says gently, “I didn’t know you could speak spanish.”

Caboose shrugs. “My mom was from Mexico.”

“I’m sure the Reds could have used you when they needed help with Lopez.”

“No one asked. Church’s spanish setting sometimes got stuck, but stupid Tucker never bothered to see if I could understand then either.” He puts the dishes away. “My mom always said she’d go back home if she ever got to leave the moon. So I guess maybe she’s in Mexico, but every time I ask, everyone just says they don’t know.”

“Someone has to.”

“Maybe.”

Carolina puts a hand on his arm. “You miss her a lot.”

“Yes. The last time I saw her she was—”

_I told you not to do that. I told you, again and again, to be a listener. Not a fighter. And now you’ll be a soldier. How do you think that makes me feel? It makes me feel like you’ve never listened. That you don’t need me._

“Angry?”

Caboose nods. “Very. I never got to say goodbye, or tell her I was sorry.”

“I’m sure she knows.”

“Yeah…” He moves away. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s pretty early, Caboose.”

“It’s okay. I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning, Carolina.”

He hears her sigh as he goes into his room, and a soft, “G’night, Caboose,” before he shuts the door.

 

* * *

 

Caboose knows that sometimes Locus is in the towns they visit, and that sometimes he spends the night with Carolina.

He’s not very bright about a lot of things, and he has trouble remembering stuff, sure. But he knows that Locus and Carolina are sleeping together and that Carolina has decided not to tell him.

It’s her secret, he decides. She has every right to keep it.

They only have a few days of their trip left, now, and he wants to ask her if she’ll see Locus in the capitol, because he figures she has at least once since they first found him, but if she’s not going to tell him, then he’s just going to let her be.

The night before they’re supposed to go back, they’re staying in a little house in a town called McMaron. Carolina makes some excuse and is gone for most of the night, so Caboose spends some precious time alone, listening to music, and thinking about Kai.

It’s late when he hears the door slam shut and someone stumble into a lamp and laugh. He gets up and goes to the door of his room, opening it just a crack so he can see.

“If you break something here, they’ll send Kimball the bill,” he hears Locus say.

“It’s not broken—” Carolina picks up the lamp. “Fuck. It’s broken.”

“Stash it.”

“I’m not _hiding_ it, I’ll say it was an accident.”

“...Wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Now shut up and get in there.” She shoves him through the open doorway of her room and closes the door behind her.

Caboose closes his own door and lays back down on the bed, putting the earbuds back in and turning up the volume.

He’s glad Carolina is happy. She’d stopped smiling for a while. He thinks it’s nice when she does.

 

* * *

 

Even though Caboose added extra days to their trip, and definitely spent longer in some places than in others — they get back to Chorus early in the morning, just four days behind schedule.

Kimball is waiting in the hangar. She doesn’t seem too happy, but she smiles when she sees them and Caboose only shakes her hand, like he and Carolina practiced, instead of giving her a hug. He really likes Kimball.

“I’ve gotten some good news from most of the places you visited. Nothing terrible yet, so as of right now, good work. Both of you.” She looks at Caboose. “I’m sure you have a very colorful, _length_ report of your time away, but I think you should rest. You, too, agent.”

“We should meet—”

“It’s six AM. We’ll meet later. I just wanted to be the first to greet you. Go home, shower, take a nap. You’ve earned some R&R.”

 

* * *

 

Grif’s the only one up when they get back to the apartment. “I have a stupid meeting at _stupid_ seven-thirty,” he mutters. “I literally want to die.”

Caboose sighs. “Please don’t.”

“Hey, I’m going to bed,” Carolina says, putting a hand on Caboose’s arm. “You should, too.”

“I will.”

She nods and heads up the stairs to her room. Caboose watches her go and turns back to Grif, who is looking at him very strangely.

“...What?”

“Today’s Saturday. My sister’s got the day off.”

Caboose swallows. “Oh.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Ah. Well. I won’t...wake her up. I will leave her alone?”

Grif laughs. “Nah. Go get her. She’s been missing you pretty bad.”

Caboose barely hears the end of that sentence. He takes the stairs three at a time and stops outside of Kai’s room. He wants to just go right in, but that would be rude, right? Or is it romantic to go in and wake her up? Or is that really weird? Or should he just go lay down and leave _his_ door unlocked and let _her_ wake up up? Or should he —

The door swings open and Caboose has never seen anything as beautiful as the way Kaikaina Grif looks _right now_ — her hair is a mess, she’s wearing a t-shirt that goes down to her knees and her bare legs are the most incredible thing he’s been allowed to see in two months. He swallows because he wants to _have her_ and she’s just staring at him, like she kind of can’t believe he’s there.

It’s been the longest ten weeks and four days of his life.

“...Hi,” he says, and walks right in and kisses her.

She goes lax against him with a moan, pushing the door shut and winding her arms around his neck. Caboose wraps his arms around her, holding her close, lifting her off her feet to kiss her properly. He loses his balance and has to fall back against the door, taking her with him.

Kai finally pulls back and gently takes his chin in hand. “You’re late, colonel.”

“We got busy.”

She lets go, then grips the front of his shirt and pulls him back down for another kiss. “You made me wait,” she murmurs, and drops her gaze.

Caboose lifts her chin and she looks at him. “I waited, too.”

His words are a match being struck. She pulls and he goes. She pushes and he sits heavily on her bed while she crawls into his lap, kissing him hungrily. Caboose _drinks_ from her, opens his mouth and breathes. He lets the tension and the anxiety and the frustration of the last ten weeks fall away, lets it melt under her hands as she tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it away before pushing him onto his back.

“God, I thought about this every night,” she mutters, leaning down to kiss his neck and chest.

“What were you thinking?”

“That you were hot and far away and couldn’t make me come.” She glances up at him. “Had to take care of it myself.”

Caboose swallows. “I thought about you, too.”

“Yeah?” Kai trails her lips along his jaw, takes her tongue and traces the shell of his ear before tugging on the lobe with her teeth. “Did you think about me like this?” He nods. “Did you get hard?” she asks, her hand slipping down to cup the bulge growing under his pants. “Did you come?”

“ _Yes_ —” He groans when she presses against his cock, hips bucking up against her. “Please let me—”

“Let you what?”

He sits up on his elbows, almost panting. “Taste you.”

Caboose kind of expects her to waggle her eyebrows, or say something lewd that he’ll think about for days — but she doesn’t. Instead, she pushes herself off him and pulls her shirt over her head by the hem of it, revealing her bare chest. Caboose sits up, and finds her breasts right where he wants them. He only has to tip his head just a little to take a dark brown nipple between his teeth and tug. She sighs, slipping her fingers through his hair, drawing her hand down to cup the back of his neck and hold him to her. Caboose settles his hands at her waist, sliding one just under the elastic band of her underwear. He grips her hips, rocking her gently, forward and back.

Kai hisses when he bites a little too hard, but doesn’t tell him to stop. He moves on to the other nipple, his hands now working her underwear down over her hips and the swell of her ass, revealing a dark tangle of hair between her legs that he brushes his knuckles against. He finds them damp, and wonders if she was touching herself before he got there, or if she just wants this _that much_.

Caboose does. He really, really does.

“Hey.” She finally urges him away from her chest. “You want me on my back?”

“...No.” He kicks off his shoes and moves toward her pillows and lays down.

Kai moans and gets her underwear all the way off before crawling up the length of his chest. “I think I love you even more.”

She braces herself with a hand on the wall and leverages her cunt over his mouth before its close enough for Caboose to taste. She holds herself up, so he keeps his hands on her thighs and lets her control the rhythm.

“ _Fuck_ yes,” she says, and reaches down with her free hand to circle her clit.

Caboose closes his eyes and revels in the rhythm of her hips, in the heady scent of her cunt. He lets one hand drift between her legs and slip inside, and it’s that moment when she comes and he can feel it pulling him in right until the very last second.

Kai slides down and kisses him, dragging her tongue over his chin and cheeks, breathing heavy.

“Pants,” she says, and hauls herself off of him to start digging through her bedside table. Caboose shucks off his jeans and boxes, his cock stiff and flagging against him. Kai turns and admires him for a moment before she tears open the foil and urges him back again. Caboose lays out on her bed, holding his breath as she positions herself over his cock and carefully lowers herself down.

It has been —

_Too long._

His hips bucks up and she shouts, and he says he’s sorry, but she shushes him and braces herself on his shoulder, riding it out.

“ _God_ , you feel good.” She sets a slow and steady pace at first, keeping her eyes on him, taking his hands and bringing them up to cup her breasts. They’re soft and his hands are rough, he knows that — the gloves make them that way, lifting the crates makes them that way, living _this life_ has made them that way. He moves in time with her, thrusting up as she moves down to meet him, striking her deep and earning a litany of sounds that he wishes he could keep.

His memory is faulty — Dr. Grey told him it wasn’t his fault, and so did the very nice woman who did his MRI some months ago. They told him not to worry, they told him not to let it stop him from doing what he wanted.

 _Catastrophizing._ Sometimes he sees a therapist and out of everything she has ever told him, why is _that_ the word he remembers?

“Don’t spiral,” she’d offered. As _advice._ Like he can stop that, like can keep himself grounded, like he —

“ _Hey._ ” Kai slows down and lowers her face just above his. “Stop that. I need you here. You feel this, right? You feel us?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Then tell me _how_ it feels.”

“Good,” he manages. “R-really good.”

“Warm?”

“Uh-huh?”

Caboose releases his hold one on of her breasts and hooks it around her neck, drawing her in and planting a searing kiss on her lips. He tugs one between his teeth. “Feels better than I imagined.”

She laughs against his mouth and relaxes her pace, letting him fuck steadily up into her. Skin meets skin and the room is heavy with the scent of sex, of tired moans of pleasure so early in the morning.

He _loves her._ It wrenches something loose in him and he turns her over, burying his face against her neck as he grinds out a now brutal pace.

“ _Ah_ —” Kai cries out, but he cuts her off with a kiss and she hooks her legs around his waist and draws him in somehow closer. “Right there, _right there._ Come on—” She tugs on his hair and forces him to look at her. “ _Harder._ ”

Caboose doesn’t know if he can do that. He doesn’t want to hurt her, and he knows he can. He’s hurt people by accident plenty of times, and she’s —

“I’ll be okay,” she says, sensing his doubt. He’s slowed down. “I know you need to come.”

“ _I do._ ”

“Then let me help. Come on, let me feel you, let me feel this—” She presses her legs against him, urging him on. “You close?” He can only nod. “You’re doing so good, come on. Right there’s good, babe, it’s really good. Just keep hitting it, just keep going.” She kisses his cheek and neck and Caboose goes and goes and gives and gives —

It feels like his release is punched out of him. He says her name on the last few thrusts, hears a desperate noise, “ _Hah, hah—_ ” like the strangest laughter in slow motion and realizes that it’s him, just before he comes with moan.

And then his bones seem to blink out of existence.

He collapses, but she holds him, carding her fingers through his damp hair, kissing his temple.

“You did so good,” she murmurs. “Was it okay?” Caboose manages a nod. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

His bones start coming back, one bit at a time. He finally pushes himself off and manages to sit on the edge of the bed so he can slip the condom off and tie it at the end. He walks a little unsteadily to the bathroom and tosses it in the trash before cleaning himself up.

Kai is straightening up the bed, tugging her t-shirt back on before she crawls under the blanket and pats the spot next to her.

“I know you’re wiped.”

He nods. “It was a very long trip.” He lays down and tucks his back against her. Little spoon is the best spoon, he remembers. One of his sisters said that. And Kai doesn’t mind. She holds him close and keeps pushing his hair back, kissing the top of his head.

“I bet you did so great. I’m so proud of you.”

“It made me sad,” he confesses. It reminds him of his confession to her before the worst dinner of his entire life, the one where Sergeant Thace laid out his stupid, ugly past. The one where he shamed his family and made his mother cry.

“You don’t have to be sad right now,” Kai says. “You can sleep. Everything will be better after.”

Caboose nods and closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how many moments pass between the one where he is awake, and the one where he is suddenly _not_ , but they are warm ones, with someone he loves holding him close, and the memories of home are a distant thing that he doesn’t need to think on right now.

Not for a long time.

 

* * *

 

“We’re getting good responses, most notably from Governor Lewis, in Arcadia. He’s quite taken with you, colonel.” Kimball looks, and sounds, very proud. Caboose shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Take the compliment. You’ve done great work.”

“Um. Thank you.”

“I know you prefer Carolina be here—”

“I don’t,” he says, honestly. He likes meeting with Kimball. It would be incredibly unprofessional of him to tell her this, and a big _do not do this_ under the rules for communicating with officers that Wash taught him —

But Caboose had seventeen sisters, and he’s never met anyone in the universe like them, until Kimball.

There are women he meets who look like his sisters, or look enough like them for Caboose to feel that bright, sharp feeling of homesickness. But no one is ever really _like_ them. No one talks like them, or acts like them. And he always thought that was a good thing.

And then Kimball took off her helmet for the first time, and she shouted at someone and said _just_ the right thing to remind Caboose so strongly of his sister Marie that he almost got sick in his helmet.

It’s been a long time, since he saw Marie.

But sometimes Kimball turns her head just _so_ — and she looks a lot like her.

She leans forward. “I heard something interesting.”

“Did you?”

“Mmhm.” She smiles, and then says in spanish. “ _Is it your mother or your father? Or both?_ ”

Caboose makes a noise and Kimball laughs. A _real_ laugh.

“ _Mi mamá._ ”

Kimball nods. “Mine, too.” She shuts down her tablet and tosses it to the side. “You’re dismissed, if you’d like.” She pauses. “Or you and I could practice speaking a language I know both of us haven’t had a chance to for a long while.”

Caboose nods, trying to contain his excitement.

“ _Excelente._ ”

 

* * *

 

The talk with Kimball is nice.

The news at the end of the week is less so.

Caboose lays in Kaikaina’s bed and watches her come out of the bathroom, a towel around her waist, another wrapped around her head, keeping her wet hair off her back.

“I have to leave again, at the end of the week.”

She stops digging through a drawer and turns to him. “For how long?”

“A few days.”

She nods, letting her towel drop as she pulls on a few things for bed. Caboose closes his eyes and listens to the rest of her evening routine, counting down until she turns off the bathroom light and climbs into bed with him. When he opens his eyes, the room is dark, but her face is lit by the light of one of Chorus’ moons, shining through the window.

“That’s not so bad.”

“I know.”

“Still.” She tucks herself against him, and now she’s the little spoon. _Important distinctions_ , he thinks.

“Yes. Still. I have to go to Arcadia. They lost their new doctors and they need some supplies.”

“You should stop babysitting that town. That guy there is really using you.”

“They need my help.”

“They need _someone’s_ help,” she mutters. “Doesn’t always have to be you. I know you feel for them and everything, but they’re going to be _fine._ ”

“I won’t see him as much anymore. Governor Lewis.”

“I feel bad for him, then,” she says, and grins. “Seeing you is a real treat.”

Caboose smiles. “I got that one,” he says, and pulls her closer to kiss her properly.

 

* * *

 

It’s true that Arcadia is looking better, but it’s also true that Caboose has paid it some extra attention. It reminded him so strongly of home, the first time he was there, right down to near-identical UNSC prefabs that didn’t look like much from the outside, or inside. The prefabs are being replaced with better housing, but things are slow going.

But Kai is right. They’re going to be fine. They don’t really need him anymore.

Carolina steps off the ship ahead of him, her helmet tucked under her arm. Neither of them need to be in armor for little visits like these, but like Wash, Carolina has habits that are hard to break.

Caboose follows her, and he doesn’t know which of them spots Locus first, but Carolina turns to Caboose and says, “I’m going to see if they need help over by the wells.”

“Okay.” He kind of hopes his tone conveys _tell Locus I said hi_ , because Caboose likes Locus, and wishes she’d share him every once in a while. But whether it does or not, she heads toward the well.

It’s sundown in Arcadia, and the streets are sparse. Not a lot of people live here, and they still adhere to a curfew almost out of habit.

“Colonel!” Governor Lewis steps out of the newly constructed city hall. He’s friendly, which Caboose likes, and he doesn’t use big words just because he can to explain what’s happening. “I see you’ve brought what we asked for.”

“Sir—” Smith taps Caboose’s shoulder. “Should we bring this directly to the hospital?”

“I think so,” Lewis says. “If there’s anything that doesn’t go there, they can parse it out. Have my assistant Camilla go with you—” A young woman steps forward. “She’ll show you to your quarters when you’re done. They’re freshly painted and I think you’ll find the sleeping arrangements much better than your last visit.”

Smith salutes and leads his soldiers toward the hospital, crates in tow.

Lewis turns to Caboose. “I was hoping you’d join me inside our new city hall, colonel. I know you were excited about the blueprints some time ago.”

“Sure.” Caboose slips his hands into his pockets and trails after Lewis. He looks for Carolina at the well, but doesn’t spot her among the workers. Lewis urges him to follow quicker.

“They’ll be plenty of inspections for you to do come morning, my dear boy. I have a very serious issue with some water mains downtown, but no one skilled enough to fix it. Perhaps you could take note of that tomorrow, and tell someone at the capitol.”

“I can.”

“Good, good. Ah, here we are. My _new_ office. After you, colonel, after you.”

Caboose steps through the open door. It _is_ a nice office, it kind of reminds him of the photos of his father’s office at the university where he worked on Earth, before Lunar Prime. Wood shelves and a beautiful desk with an elegant leather —

He stops.

“...Where...did you get these things?”

Before every trip, Caboose looks over the things they’ve brought to a town.

He’s never brought anyone _anything_ as nice as this. No one’s ever asked for it, and he doesn’t know where New Armonia and the Chorusian government, all slim metal lines and glass tabletops, would even _get_ something like this.

Lewis shrugs. “I’ve gathered a few other sources in my years here, colonel. It’s nothing for you to worry on. Though I could tell you, I suppose.” Lewis goes around to the other side of his desk. “After the mercenaries left and Charon was defeated, I had very little left to work with, other than people. One thing the mercenaries left behind in their wake was there contacts. Well to do businessmen and women who needed people with certain skills. Some of those I had. In return, they were willing to give me things that I couldn’t really _request_ from the capitol.

“And, after I insured that supplies from New Armonia wouldn’t be arriving for some time, they were willing to believe the same _forgotten settlement_ story that you did.”

Caboose looks around the office. “...You _sold_ people for these things?”

“Oh, colonel. Absolutely not. I offered the unique services that some of my citizens possessed. Engineers, hackers, artists. The wealthy of this galaxy don’t want _slaves_. They want _services._ They want access to things their friends don’t. They want to own things no one else does. They want information that no one else can get. I simply found myself in the unique position of giving it to them. But unfortunately, my resources were, inevitably, wearing thin.”

Behind Caboose, the door snaps shut, and a tall, slender young man turns the lock and holds up a gun.

Lewis leans forward. “When I could offer them less, they suggested I aim higher. In the same position as Kimball, for example, I could quite a lot. Much more than I could as the governor of some backwater _city_ , as the capitol likes to call us. I told them I needed time, and they were generous. Six months, they gave me. But, I’ve hardly needed it. My bombs in the capitol have started to do their work. The departure of my doctors due to...insufficient supplies will be the next leg of my plan.”

“I don’t…”

“Understand? Of course you don’t. You’re a sim trooper and an idiot. But you were fairly instrumental. I needed your trust. I needed your sympathy. I needed the story of this settlement to spread, and I’m very happy to report that it has. _Poor_ Arcadia, abandoned by _President_ Kimball in its hour of need. And now her capitol is under attack. She can’t seem to hold it together, can she?”

“Kimball is a _good_ president. You...you’re a liar!”

“True. But I am also a leader who only wants what is best. Kimball is war weary. She’s of the old guard and she needs to be let go. When it comes time to vote, who do you think will stand out as a triumph? An old general who lost track of her own cities and let her capitol be attacked? Or the rough and tumble leader of a city on the rise, one that was beat down by Charon’s mercenaries and has still managed to survive?” Lewis shrugs. “People love those kinds of stories. And I will _crush_ Kimball.

“Unfortunately, you cannot survive our last meeting, colonel.”

Caboose hits the floor before he registers the pain. Something cracks him over the head and he sees stars and all he can think is, _please not again._

The voices around him are distant, and kind of foggy.

“—should I do with him?”

“Lean him up against the door. The story is you broke in from the window. Lydia should be—” A cracking noise sounds through the room as someone forces the window open and climbs through. “Yes, very good.” Lewis gets up from his chair and opens his desk, pulling out a pistol and screwing something on top. “Take it,” he says to the man. “Now the story is three shots to the chest. The _colonel’s_ chest,” he adds, when the man points it at him.

“And you...still want me to shoot you in the leg?”

“If I’d changed my mind I would have told you.” Lewis turns to Caboose. “The very last thing I needed was a martyr. I didn’t _want_ it to be you. Really. But I have no other options. Everyone loves the Reds and Blues. Bunch of brainless washouts who _just_ got lucky. But you! I think they love you the most because it’s _simple._ You don’t make things complicated. You’re just...Caboose!”

Caboose growls and starts to get up. The man hits him over the head again.

“Carolina is with me and she will—”

“She’s distracted with that mercenary. He wasn’t supposed to be here. I had someone summon him. I knew it would get her out of my hair and let me be alone with you.”

“You think you _tricked_ her,” Caboose says, and scoffs. “You cannot _trick_ Carolina.”

“Oh, but I did. A surprising turn of events, that romance. I wouldn’t have expected it. But it did save me a lot of trouble. Now, Marcus—” Lewis turns to the man. “Shoot the colonel, please.”

Marcus steps in front of Caboose, takes aim, and fires three times into his chest.

And Caboose remembers right then that he’d fought with Carolina about the bullet proof vest she’d wanted him to wear under his sweater, if he wasn’t going to wear his armor, because you never knew what could happen.

He’d taken it off, because it was itchy and uncomfortable and this was Arcadia and bad things didn’t happen here.

He’d put it back on because she’d looked at him very sadly, and said, “Bad things can happen everywhere, Caboose. You know that.”

Lewis doesn’t notice, and Caboose is too winded to say anything. It _hurts_ and he can’t breathe, so he probably _sounds_ like he’s been shot as he slumps over on his side and Marcus pulls him away from the door. No one has noticed the vest. Caboose keeps very still.

“Now shoot me in the leg.”

“Sir—”

“Shoot me in the _damn leg_ , I can’t do it myself it won’t look right.”

Marcus sighs and does as he’s told. Lewis doubles over, swearing as he holds out his hand for the gun. “G-good man. Now, the story ends with you trying to escape out the window,” he says, and Marcus nods, starting to head across the room.

“But I stop you.”

Lewis fires one more shot, right at the back of Marcus’ head, and he crumples.

“All we need to do now is—” He stops, and looks down at Caboose. “...You aren’t bleeding. You aren’t _bleeding!_ You stupid little—” He brandishes the gun, points it right at his head —

And then the door flies open, and Carolina and Locus burst into the room.

Caboose hopes he remembers to tell them later that they both look like superheroes.

 

* * *

 

“Aren’t you glad you listened to me?” Carolina asks, helping Caboose out of the vest on the ship.

“Yes,” he says. “I am.”

She sighs and steps back. “Well, it’s ugly, but you’re not going to die.”

“I’m very glad.”

Locus steps out of a backroom of the ship. “Found it.”

“The bug?”

“Mmhm. He got the one in his office, but this he didn’t see.” He holds up something very thin. Caboose recognizes it, Tucker used one like it to spy on Commander Tuthill.

“You planted it on him this morning?”

“When I arrived. Our both being here today was too coincidental. But...I never trusted him.”

“Why not?” Caboose asks.

“...He was too cheerful. Considering the circumstances.” His words are gruff, short, and clipped. Just like Caboose remembers.

Caboose is glad to finally get to _see_ him. For real.

“I used you as bait,” Locus confesses, sitting next to Caboose. “I would like to apologize.”

“It’s okay, I’m pretty used to stuff like that.”

“...What?”

“Oh yeah, Church and Tucker used to use me as bait all the time. I’m pretty good at it.” Caboose winces on an inhale. His chest _aches._

“I would _not_ have let you go in there if you weren’t wearing a vest,” Carolina says. “You believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He shifts. “Lewis said he tricked you. I told him he could never.”

Carolina grins and ruffles his hair. “That’s right. I’m too smart for your average bad guy. And so are you,” she adds. “Sorry about the bait thing though.”

“Well, people like to talk, and I’m a good listener.”

“Yeah, he really does like his monologues, doesn’t he?” Carolina sighs and hands him his sweater. “We’ll get you to the hospital, Caboose. Have Kai take a look at you.”

 

* * *

 

“I know I shouldn’t think this, but you getting shot in the chest and _living?_ ” She glances up at him. “It’s kinda hot.”

“I knew you were going to say that. I — _ah!_ ”

“Hurts?”

“A lot.”

Kai clucks her tongue. “Sorry, babe. Gotta make sure these aren’t anything worse.”

Someone says, “It’s called behind-armor blunt trauma, Kaikaina,” and a man comes into the room. “Good evening, colonel, I’m Dr. Bradshaw. I heard you were shot in the chest at point-blank range and now you're sitting on an exam table flirting with your nurse.”

Caboose shrugs. “She is also my girlfriend.”

Bradshaw chuckles. “That’s adorable. Alright, you’re going to be in a lot of pain. These aren’t normal bruises, they’re going to be spread out and uncomfortable. I’ll give you something for the pain, but your chart says that you can manage that pretty well on your own.”

“I have a very high pain tolerance,” Caboose says proudly.

Kai’s brows go up. “Good to know.”

“And that’s my cue.” Bradshaw and steps back and smiles. “Have a good night, colonel. And we’re all glad you’re safe and sound.”

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t in the governor’s office very long, but Caboose thinks, as he’s getting ready for bed, that he never really thought about hurting him.

The thought just...never crossed his mind.

“Violence isn’t the answer, _mi amor._ When you’re angry with someone you should listen to them. Sometimes they have very good reasons for the things they do. Other times they don’t, and it’s better to just walk away.”

Caboose can understand why Lewis would want what he wants. He never said it, but Caboose bets he loves Chorus. That he wants it to be better. That he just can’t see that happening under Kimball.

Maybe he’s right.

But he’s probably wrong.

He must not have known someone like Caboose’s mother. Someone very wise and very kind. She’d have made him understand better. She’d have made him listen.

Caboose is sleeping in his own bed tonight, because Kai is working late at the hospital, and the quiet feels nice.

He says into the dark, “Hey...Sheila?”

“ _Yes, Caboose?_ ”

“Would you please send a message to Sergeant Rice for me?”

“ _Of course. What is this in regards to?_ ”

Caboose sighs and rolls onto his back, looking up at the glow in the dark stars Tucker gave him and helped him stick to the ceiling.

He smiles.

“Tell him I am looking for someone very important. And I think he might be able to help.”


	9. i write my own hymns (sarge)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarges takes things at face value. Emily is generous. Donut and Wash get caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY this chapter is kinda sad.

He has never been so still in his life. Nerves, bones, muscle — do not know how to react, do not know how to process, so the twitches start in small ways, then become tremors in his hands that start when he isn’t paying attention. Emily — no, _Dr. Grey_ — says they’ll stop. He doesn’t tell her, of course, they stop when she comes into his room. That despite her eccentricities, despite the million flyaways and the skipped button in her blouse and the two different earrings in either ear, things that mark her as _like him_ — she is a relaxing presence. Probably _because_ she is like him.

And...also not.

She’s like him, and like no one. She’s a creature undiscovered, and not yet named. She is frantic and frenzied and _fierce_ and in any other life he’s lived, he would snark and snipe and she’d do it right back but _today_ —

Sarge is _tired._ And he doesn’t know how to deal with that.

A small nurse he’s never met looks over his scar. He’s seen it, curved like a hook, like a backwards question mark over the side of his head where they shaved his hair away. Dr. Moon says he shouldn’t touch it, and Sarge doesn’t know how to tell her he’s got no fucking urge to do so without sounding like an ass. Wouldn’t be a concern, usually, but she’s been good to him, and Em — _Grey_ — said to behave. And Donut, and Simmons, if he’s counting.

“Colonel?” Dr. Moon knocks on the door frame. “We’re ready for you.”

 

* * *

 

“With a tumor as aggressive as this, we knew there was a pretty good chance we wouldn’t be able to get it all, like we mentioned before surgery.” Moon points to his most recent MRI. “You can see that’s exactly the case here. It just...won’t be possible to remove the rest.”

Sarge nods. He was already ready for this. He knew going in it’d be this way. “So what’s next then?”

“Radiation therapy.” A young man leans forward. Sarge knows him. It’s...it’s something with —

“This is Dr. Waterson,” Emily says, sitting next to him. Sarge looks over at her. She wasn’t supposed to be at this, at least not as a member of his team. “Carry on, Hank.”

“Uh, right. So radiation. Actually, more specifically, sterotactic radiosugery. It’s a one time procedure where we use what’s called a _gamma knife_ …” Waterson cringes. “You’re not—”

“He understands you _just_ fine, Hank!” Emily chirps. “Please, continue. The colonel is _more_ than capable of following along.”

“...Okay.” Waterson keeps going. Sarge listen as he talks about the session time and how it won’t hurt and he won’t feel it and he won’t even _hear_ it. How there could be some swelling and some nausea, definitely some exhaustion. Four hours, at most, for the procedure, awake the whole time —

“How long would that give me?” he asks.

The room goes very quiet.

Sarge huffs a laugh. “Come on now.” He looks at each of them. “Don’t be afraid to give it to an old man straight. I’ll do your...gamma knife, whatever—” He waves a hand. “But I want to know. How long have I got left?”

Dr. Moon looks at Emily, who nods. Sarge looks at her and her expression is — placid. If he touched her cheek, he swears the air around it would ripple.

If he touched her cheek, the ripple might become a wave, knock him down, wash him out to sea.

Dr. Moon says, “In an ideal situation? Two years, at most. Most likely, though, fifteen months. That’s...that’s what is _typical._ ”

Sarge nods. “Typical.” He stands. “I don’t know if you’ve managed to understand this yet, but I am not _typical._ ”

“How you feel about yourself doesn’t really matter, colonel.” Dr. Waterson folds his arms over his chest. “You’re a person same as anyone else.”

“Nah.” Sarge turns to go. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

 

* * *

 

He has nowhere to go, after that, so he heads to his room, waits for someone to tell him off. Emily is only a few minutes behind him, leaning against the door frame with her arms folded over her chest.

“ _That_ went well.”

“Just because I don’t _want_ to die doesn’t mean I wanna be treated with kid gloves,” he mutters. “Discharge me, I’m tired of being here.”

“Not until you agree.”

He looks at her. “Agree to _what?_ ”

“You _know_ what,” she says and steps inside, shutting the door behind her. “You fell down the stairs. Your memory isn’t what it was. Your vision could become impaired. I will _not_ stand here and list every single apparently _delightful_ thing you’d prefer happen to you while you live on base, _alone_ , like a _hermit_.” She sighs and sits on the edge of his bed. Sarge moves to sit next to her.

“I removed myself from your team for very specific reasons. One of those being that I _care_ for you.” She slips her hand into his. “Maybe I haven’t made that clear enough,” she says, tone more cheerful, now, but muted.

_Muted._

That’s what he’s been, he realizes. Muted, dulled, undersaturated.

Is that what he’s doing to her?

“A hermit, huh?”

“I would like you to move back in with your team.”

“Or what?”

Emily grins. “ _Or_ I strap you to a bed and wheel you there myself. _Right_ through the streets. Gown and all.” She looks downright pleased with herself, and Sarge can’t help but chuckle.

“Alright. I’ll go back.” He looks down where her hand is still clasping his own. “Caught some feelings have you?”

She rolls her eyes and lets go, standing. “I _won’t_ dignify that with a response, colonel. You know where I stand, so I won’t press the issue a _moment_ longer. _But_ —” She leans in close. “You know where to find me,” she says, and taps his nose. “I’ll discharge you immediately. Dr. Waterson will set up the radiation appointment. Should be _fun._ ”

 

* * *

 

Sarge came from a family where one of several mottos was, “If you ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Other zingers included, “It’s a long ways from your heart,” “Only bored people are boring,” and his personal favorite, “Shut the hell up and sit the fuck down.” That was his brother Tom’s classic comeback.

But doctors on the colony were few and far between. Their medical care usually came from traveling nurses or PA’s who’d do a week of check-ups, give you something if you _had_ something, and ask you to floss better. Sarge still remembers when they got a full-time clinic, and the doctors were there permanently, and it turned out his old man had diabetes and was going into kidney failure.

“Wasn’t a _damn_ thing wrong with me ‘til you quacks showed up!”

Doesn’t mean his old man was always like that. Sarge was number nine of ten, and he still remembers sitting at the dinner table, eating the breakfast he couldn’t finish that morning. How when the phone would ring, his dad would reach behind him, pick it, and say, “Harry’s morgue!” before laughing until he cried.

He had a heart attack at that table.

Folks went to the doctor more after that.

But when Emily found out that it’d been six years since Sarge had had a proper medical exam, she locked him in a room, and threatened to strap him to a table, smiling the whole damn time.

It’d been a long time since he’d swooned. A _long_ time. He’d wondered if the feeling was mutual when she took herself off his case. She was the one, after all who’d found the tumor. When Sarge had come to her, demanding her silence, and confessed that after years of perfect vision, he was struggling to see.

“You _don’t_ have perfect vision, actually! You need glasses, I told you.”

“And I told _you_ that’s _nonsense_ , woman. Just...can you, uh. Can you tell me what might be wrong?”

“Black spots, some blurriness, a fair amount of dizziness, too, I’ll bet?”

He’d paled, probably. She’d guessed, found him out. Clever girl.

“We’ll do an MRI, of course,” she’d said, and that was that. For three weeks, they worked on what to do. On who to tell, on how to proceed. A month after his diagnosis, after knowing the cancer was slow moving, that he wasn’t in danger of keeling over anytime soon, she introduced him to his team, and told him she’d no longer be treating him as a patient.

“It’s _nothing_ personal! I have a fine team here for you and I do _not_ need the extra responsibility.” And she’d smiled when she said it, and reached out and put a hand on his elbow and stepped close enough to where he could smell her perfume and see the freckles that dotted her nose.

“But I’m not _going_ anywhere. You know that. Don’t you?”

And for the second time since he’d met her — _he swooned._

 

* * *

 

So he moves back into the apartment, down the hall from Caboose who offers to carry his only box of belongings up the stairs before remembering he’s under orders not to lift anything at all.

“On account of the bruising,” he says cheerfully, and lifts his shirt to reveal the gnarliest set of bruises Sarge has seen in a long while.

“Oh, right. You got messed up, huh son?”

“A little. I was very safe. Carolina made extra sure. I can open the door for you, if you want?”

Sarge nods. “Alright. Thank you, Caboose.”

Caboose grins and takes the key to Sarge’s old room and unlocks the door. “See? Just like you left it. Everyone’s going to be really happy to have you back. Grif and Donut and Simmons missed you a lot.”

“Pansies,” Sarge says, automatically. But his heart twinges — he won’t say he missed them, too, because he knows what Caboose would do with that, so he turns to shoo the boy off, only to find him already gone.

The air in the room is stale, so he leaves the door open, a window, too. He’s moved around a lot today, so it makes sense that he’s exhausted. He stretches out on the bed and puts his hands on his chest before closing his eyes.

There’s a comforting weight settled on him when he wakes up, a few hours later judging by how he feels. It’s unfamiliar, but soft, and purring contentedly on his chest. Sarge opens one eye and sees, for the first time in a long while, a cat, resting happily on top of him. He breathes, the cat rising and falling with his chest, and reaches out to scratch behind its ears. It tilts its head to get a better angle and Sarge chuckles.

“And who do you belong to?”

“That’d be me.” Sarge looks up and sees Washington leaning against the door frame. The cat hears his voice and moves from Sarge to the floor in one fluid motion. Wash leans down to pick it up. “Her name’s Artemis. Looks like she found another nap spot.”

“Smelled weird in here,” Sarge says, sitting up. He watches the cat move to perch on Wash’s shoulders. “Where’d you get her?”

“Caboose found her on a settlement. Brought her back. She’s a good girl, she won’t bother you.”

“I don’t mind a cat. They’re good workers, when they put their mind to it.”

“She’s a mouser, that’s for sure. I leave the window open and she brings back dead stuff and leaves it on my balcony.”

“That’s a good one, then.”

Wash laughs. “Yeah. Hey—” He looks back at Sarge. “It’s...good to have you back. I’m glad you’re feeling better. At least I hope you are.” He turns and the cat jumps to the ground to walk ahead of him, leaving Sarge to the overwhelming silence of his room. He _can_ , if he strains, hear people downstairs, pots and pans being moved around, Tucker complaining loudly. His clock says it’s near five, but hunger is still foreign to him. Emily says he needs to eat — he lost forty-nine pounds in the hospital.

Instead, he grabs his trunks and gym bag, and heads for the pool.

 

* * *

 

On the colony, they’d had a lake. The Blue Hole. There was a huge tree along the bank — it grew blue leaves in the summer, and had rich purple veins of sap that bled through the bark and tasted like cherry cough syrup. In the spring it bloomed lavender colored blossoms that shed into the lake until June, and a thick branch that hung over the water sported a sturdy rope that dangled over the deepest part of the water.

“Don’t be a _baby_ ,” his brother Richard would say. “Grab the damn rope!”

Being the youngest boy made him a baby anyway, he always wanted to say. He overcame the fear of jumping because he hated to be ridiculed. One summer his sister Cara wore a shirt that said ‘i’m with stupid’ and an arrow pointing to the right and stood next to him in every photo. He’d been _happy_ when his brothers and sisters left, one by one, to join the UNSC, or go to other colonies, or even just live in a different prefab with their husband or wife.

It left him alone, with his little sister Lorelei. She wound up marrying young, after Sarge had joined the ODST. He thinks about her, sometimes. He really believes she was the only person in his family who loved him. His mother loved his father, more than she loved being a mother. His father was too busy for love. His siblings were harsh and unforgiving, and if they loved him they didn’t care if he knew.

Lorelei cared.

Sarge regrets leaving her behind. Regrets even more that he wasn’t there when she married, when she became a mother, when she was buried.

Lot of regrets, piled up over the years.

He’s learned to let go of them, one at a time. Like holding a leaf toward a wind at your back, and watching it blow away.

The pool on base is usually empty. He knows there’s a part of it used for diving practice, or treading with weight on your back, but the lap pool is largely his. There’s a few old CO’s he sees around who recognize him, but they never speak. Carolina’s his PT partner — she was the one who found him passed out in the gym at the apartment, and the dizziness had loosened his tongue and he spilled his truths into her hands.

That’s when he moved out. He couldn’t let the boys find him that way. The truth needed to be given to the on his own terms, not after an accident. The base was closer to the hospital anyway.

He passed Emily’s apartment on his way there for his scans, slowing his walk to meet her as she hit the sidewalk.

“Fancy seein’ you here,” he’d say, and she’d laugh and fall into step beside him.

“ _Serendipitous_ , my dear colonel.”

He dunks his head underwater, to clear his mind. Sarge sets his little basket of stones on the edge of the pool, and starts doing laps.

He’s fifteen in when he comes up under a looming shadow, and finds Carolina standing over him.

“Is the water good for your incision?”

Sarge huffs at her, wipes water from his face before taking another stone. “Doc says I’m clear. A real doctor, not our Doc.”

Carolina nods and tosses her towel onto a bench before diving into the lane next to him. He watches her flutter underwater more than halfway before she comes up. Her form is near perfect, arms arcing out of the water, her head turning for a breathe very few strokes.

“Show off,” he mutters, when she comes back.

She laughs and slicks her hair back. “It’s only your brain that’s a mess, right?” Sarge nods. “Then let’s race, old man.”

Sarge drops the stone back in the basket. “ _Hmph._ Alright. You’re on.”

She beats him by leaps and bounds, but his heart is beating and his nerves are alight and for the first time in _weeks_ he feels awake.

Awake and alive and free, like he used to be.

It catches up to him quickly. He pulls himself out of the water and sits on the edge, collecting himself. Carolina easily pushes herself out with one strong motion and grabs him a towel, draping it over his shoulders.

“Missed swimming with you,” she says, sitting next to him.

“Then don’t go on two month long trips. You miss a lot.”

“Like your surgery.”

Sarge nods. “Like my surgery.”

“What’s the next step?” She scoops up a handful of rocks, letting them fall from her hand and back into the basket.

“Radiation. One treatment. Then...makin’ the best of things, I suppose.”

Carolina huffs. “What does that mean?”

Sarge sighs, looks out on the pool and thinks of a tree with blue leaves, with purple sap he would lick off his fingers.

“Fifteen months, two years if I’m lucky.” He looks at her. “Four, if someone grants me a miracle.”

“Like God?”

Sarge shrugs. He’s a believer, he supposes. Less adamant than he once was. Less faithful than he used to be. “God. A doctor.”

“An Emily,” Carolina says and nudges him with her shoulder.

Sarge nods. “She’s...somethin’.”

“Yes. She certainly is.”

When he gets back, everyone’s watching something in the living room. Simmons sits up and hits pause on whatever it is.

“Sarge! I mean, sir. Colonel, sir—”

“At ease, Simmons, Jesus Christ.”

Grif turns himself around on the couch. “We didn’t see you leave. There’s burgers in the fridge.”

“I’ll eat later.”

“Sir—” Simmons stands. “Dr. Grey said we should keep an eye on you, make sure you get enough—”

“Simmons, I’m tired. I’ll eat when I damn well feel like it, you understand me?”

Simmons nods. “...Right. Sorry.”

Sarge sighs. He shouldn’t yell. He shouldn’t take out how he’s feeling, how tired he is, on his boys. It’s not fair to them. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Simmons is already sitting, the TV is already back on, and they’ve forgotten this. Sarge heads upstairs, takes a shower, and goes to bed.

 

* * *

 

“ _Colonel, you have an invitation._ ”

Sarge spits toothpaste all over the mirror with a start.. He’s still getting used to Sheila. He coughs, rinses, and grabs a towel to clean it up. “An invitation to what?”

“ _From Dr. Grey. To her home this evening._ ”

“Uh—”

“ _Should I respond in that way?_ ”

“For the love of—” He sighs. “ _No_. Of course not. Tell her I’ll be there.”

“ _Of course!_ ” The room is silent for a moment. Sarge starts plugging in his razor. “ _She says be there at eight sharp_.”

He drops the razor right in the sink, but still.

He kind of has a date.

 

* * *

 

Emily lives at the very top of one of the apartments near the hospital. A gift, she tells him, from Kimball.

“I don’t like it, actually. It’s too big, there’s too many windows, and I’m terrified of heights. _But_ you get over all that eventually.” She moves to pour him a glass of wine. “Right. No alcohol. You’d think I was a _doctor_ or something.”

“Water’s fine,” he says, and takes the glass when she hands it to him. “This is a trick, ain’t it? To make me eat?”

“Now _why_ would you think that?”

“I figure Kaikaina ratted me out.”

Emily shrugs. “She might have. She’s very loyal. To me. I don’t think she cares how you feel about it. But I don’t cook.” She starts taking the lids off of a few plastic containers. They plate up and she leads him to the balcony. “ _Despite_ the fear, it’s a really incredible view.”

Sarge whistles. “Sure is.” They eat in silence, but it isn’t awkward and the bits of conversation in between aren’t forced. He enjoys this, eats the broccoli she doesn’t want, gives her his eggroll and laughs when she tries to interpret her fortune cookie.

“ _The day only gets better._ God, what a load of shit.”

Sarge chuckles. “You don’t believe that?”

“Oh, I _do._ But I don’t need a cookie to tell me that.” She gets up and goes to the balcony, leaning on the edge and looking down. “I wasn’t afraid of heights as a little girl. I loved climbing trees.” She looks back at Sarge. “I love this planet. With _every_ cell in my body.”

Sarge goes to stand next to her, and her gaze follows him. “Must be a nice feeling.”

“You don’t love where you’re from?”

He shrugs. “Yes and no. Complicated, is what it is.”

Emily nods. “I feel that way about Chorus. Don’t get me wrong,” she adds. “I wasn’t lying. I do _love_ my planet. But I watched people tear themselves apart for years. I stitched them up and watched them bleed to death and I thought it was _never_ going to end. And then you showed up. And, eventually...it did.” Her hand fits into his. “Why are you afraid to die? _Now_ , when you weren’t before?”

He looks out. City views are all he’s known lately. He does kind of miss home, in moments like this. Be nice to have something to go back to, but his colony’s gone, now. Lot of old UNSC colonies like that are gone.

“Seems cheap,” he says. “Not the way I was taught. You die in battle.” This all sounds like what he told Grif. It’s all true. His training is carved into him, tattooed on him. “You die _for_ something. Not because of something.”

“But a bullet—”

“Is just another witness for your glorious final moments,” he says.

Emily snorts. “Full offense, that’s _bullshit._ ”

Sarge turns toward her, lets his other hand settle at her waist and draws her close.

“Yeah,” he says, before he leans in to kiss her. “It is.”

 

* * *

 

Touch drifts back to him. It surprises him that she is embarrassed about her scars. There is one on her chest, from a bullet wound, the skin bright white and _angry_ and he traces it with his tongue before kissing the curve of her neck. She cards her fingers through his hair, which is growing over his incision, now. She doesn’t touch that, but he’d be fine if she did.

He’d believe, too, if it healed after.

On his knees, his sinks between hers, tastes her cunt and holds her legs up and apart. Emily grips the headboard, digs the nails of her other hand into his arm and pleads for more.

He gives her his name, before he brings his fingers between her legs and draws out her climax. She looks at him and they share a secret, now.

(And he holds leaves to the wind against his back and lets go of his regrets one by one by one—)

He is careful when he presses into her, his first strokes shallow before she fixes him with a look at he _knows._ So he moves, he is deep and his pace is demanding, something he will pay for later when he wants her again and won’t be able to. She’ll laugh and she’ll kiss the corner of his mouth and pull the blanket over them both.

But for now, he can do this. He can watch her expression change each time he pulls out and each time he thrusts back in. He can listen to the way she says his name, the first time he’s heard it from someone else in so long.

He can turn to his back when he gets tired and let her ride him until they’re both nearly spent. Sweat shines on her chest, hair sticks to her neck when he cups the back of it and pulls her down to kiss him as his hips rise up to meet her, thrust for thrust until he comes with a groan, swallowed up in the dark and leaving the two of them to untangle themselves as the air sweeps in from the open balcony in her room and chills them both.

 

* * *

 

Emily is dressed and getting ready to leave when wakes up the next morning.

“I’m not trying to sneak out,” she says, and kisses his temple. “But I got a call and I’ve got to go.”

He sits up and scrubs a hand over his face. “Alright.”

“You can stay. I’ll come back in the afternoon if you want to rest. You were _very_ active last night.”

He chuckles and pulls her down on top of him. “You want me here when you get back then?”

“I’d certainly enjoy it.” She kisses him. “Stay. Sleep. I’ll be back.” She twists out of his hold and kisses his forehead one last time before grabbing her keys and slipping her feet into her shoes.

Sarge tries to sleep, but winds up out of bed and walking around in his boxers, eating her cereal and poking through her kitchen drawers. Nothing too strange. Maybe more knives than the average homeowner, but that seems practical. He cleans his dishes and puts them away, then toys with her rowing machine in the corner.

It’s nearly ten when he falls asleep and, true to her word, she’s there in the afternoon when he wakes up. He spends himself pressing her against the kitchen counter, one of her legs hooked around his as he fucks her hard before she sinks down and takes him into her mouth, swallowing him down.

“You should go home,” she says after, spitting water into the sink. “ _Zero_ offense meant.”

“I should.”

“But I wouldn’t mind if you were here again soon.” She pulls him in and kisses him, and it takes another twenty minutes to get out of her apartment, but they are twenty minutes well spent.

 

* * *

 

But he just —

He has the _worst_ timing.

He knows Donut’s been spending time with Wash. Donut explained the whole thing one afternoon in the hospital, after he’d gone into shock over the state of Sarge’s hands, which had been dry and cracked.

“We’re working things out,” he’d said, and gently massaged lotion into each of Sarge’s hands. “We have a _very_ good system. And we’re taking a _spanish_ class together. Lopez is _so_ funny, sir, did you know how funny he was?”

Sarge opens the door and they’re on the sofa, Wash’s mouth pulling away from Donut’s, a laugh spilling out on the exhale, one hand cupping his cheek while Donut chases after him, kissing him again and moving further into his space, chests flush together, one hand gripping his shirt.

The door hits the wall and they break apart, fumbling and standing and already making excuses.

Donut half-shrieks, “ _We were just—_ ” then stops. “Sir, are you...wearing what you wore last night?”

Sarge points. “I won’t hear it from either of you. And _you_.” He looks right at Wash, who, to his credit, stands his ground and looks right back, jaw set. “You better watch yourself, you understand me?”

Donut swoons a little. “ _Sarge._ You don’t have to threaten Wash. He’s been a perfect gentleman.”

“Donut, he shot you in the chest.”

Donut sighs. “We’re _working on that_ —”

Sarge scowls and turns on his heel, going up to his room. He shuts and locks the door, then realizes there is a cat on his balcony. Wash’s cat. He sighs and goes to open the door. She saunters in, like this is as much her space as his, winding between his legs.

“Alright,” he mutters, before changing his clothes and stretching out on the bed. Artemis hops up and onto his chest, beginning to purr almost instantly.

 

* * *

 

He’s been inside the machine for two hours, his head held very still.

“ _Hank_ ,” a voice says. “ _You can take a break. I’ll stay with him._ ”

“ _Oh! Emily, I—_ ”

“ _It’s fine, Hank._ ”

Sarge grunts. “It’s fine, Hank.” He can hear Hank huff over the speaker and then the door shut. “He’s a good kid.”

“ _Top of his class. Needs to be taken down a peg. How’re you feeling?_ ”

“Little stiff. Been layin’ here for two hours.”

“ _We’ll stretch you out later._ ”

Sarge sighs. “Emily…”

She doesn’t answer. He hears her humming something, an overture or a movement or whatever it is she’s been playing on repeat in her office for a week. They’re both quiet for five minutes before she says, “ _I’m not going to stop. Not unless you want to._ ”

“I’m dying.”

“ _I’m a doctor and I’ve seen your scans. I know._ ”

“Then why—”

“ _You might be afraid to die, but I’m not afraid of losing you._ ” She pauses. “ _You’re worth it._ ”

Sarge can’t move. He just stares up at the top of the machine and closes his eyes. “...Worth what?”

She sighs. “ _How much it’s going to hurt._ ”

“It doesn’t have to.”

Emily laughs. “ _It was always going to. May as well have fun before it’s over._ ”

 

* * *

 

He falls asleep somewhere between listening to her hum _Clair de Lune_ and the end of his treatment. When he wakes up, Grif is snoring in a chair by the bed while Donut and Simmons talk quietly by the window. They turn as Sarge shifts in the bed and go to him.

“Sir.” Simmons helps him sit up and hands him some water. “How was it?”

“Quiet.”

Grif grunts in his sleep and opens his eyes. “Oh good, you didn’t die.”

“You’d have liked that, wouldn’t you?”

“Would’ve been the best day of my life,” he says, but there’s no bite. He looks at Sarge and it’s...genuine. Sarge looks away.

“Dr. Grey said you had to spend the night and you could go home in the morning,” Simmons says. “We just...wanted to be here when you woke up.”

Sarge looks back and between the three of them. They are marked and scarred and changed by the years they’ve spent together. And even though he’s been the cause of some of it, they’re still here, and they still look at him like they always have.

He nods. “I...appreciate it.”

Donut sighs. “Oh gosh, sir.” He reaches out and takes Sarge’s hand in his own. “We love you, too.”


	10. you could try yoga (wash)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash and Donut stretch. A mystery is solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realized i needed more than ten chapters so we're tentatively at 15 but uh. 
> 
> we might hit 20.

It’s been a long time since Wash has had a waking nightmare. The kind where you’re sitting up, still seeing blood, still feeling bullet wounds and still watching people die. Where your eyes are open and the world is still, but _you_ are moving, _you_ are still tethered to a dreamscape.

It’s been a long time. He’s been sleeping pretty well, the last year or so.

Someone is in bed with him, and Wash blinks into the early morning light, grateful to be dreamless, grateful not to be alone.

“Someone” is Artemis, who has claimed the empty pillow for her own and looks at him, _distraught_ at the prospect of being awake so early.

“Sorry,” he murmurs toward her, and turns to scratch behind her ears. She purrs and stretches before rolling off the pillow and closer to him. She’s his own personal space heater, and that’s good — Chorus is in the early days of fall, and the nights are cold. Wash needs to stop leaving the window open.

He does eventually get up to slide it closed with a groan, then do some stretches. Dr. Yue gave him a series of morning mindfulness workouts to do, and Wash has them mostly memorized by now, so he rolls out his yoga mat before closing his eyes, taking deep breaths, and waking up his body.

 _Hello_ , it says.

“Hello,” Wash says back.

He starts with his brain. Tries to remember as _much_ as he can from the day before — talking to Tucker, sparring with Caboose, fighting with Carolina —

“Oh,” he says. Right. The fight. He’d been upset about Caboose, about the vest and Governor Lewis and Arcadia and everything. He’d been frustrated that she’d let Caboose go in with nothing, angry that Tucker had defended her, upset with himself that he’d let his emotions get the best of him.

Not a great day, yesterday. But he keeps on going. Can he remember, Dr. Yue might say, what he ate for breakfast?

Wash takes a breath. “Boiled egg. Wheat toast. Grapefruit juice.”

 _Same thing we eat every day_ , his body seems to say, and Wash nods, beginning to move his thoughts down. Down past his eyes, which saw a beautiful sunset, then past his nose, which smelled marigolds for the first time in years. To his lips, which were kissed for the first time in...even _longer._

And _now_ more of his body is awake, thrumming with energy, responding to the memory of Donut, of his soft lips that were curled into a smile and the way his turned when Wash touched the scar above his ear.

 _We liked it_ , his body says. Donut hadn’t. Donut had gone, well — pink. Pink cheeks and red ears and Wash had cupped the back of his head and held him close and whispered in his good ear, “There’s nothing you could teach me about you I wouldn’t like.”

Donut had seemed surprised.

And now all of him is awake, faster than usual, his cock growing hard under his sweats as Wash tries to deep breathe it away, annoyed that he will have to deal with it himself.

He inhales, exhales — and someone knocks.

Wash moves to a different exercise, one that will hide his erection, hopefully, and says, “Come in.”

Donut opens the door, then closes it behind him. Wash misses a step in the downward dog pose and lands, hard, on his knee, wincing in pain.

“Oh gosh.” Donut goes to him, helps him so they can sit on the yoga mat together.. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” Wash tries to angle himself away, but not _away_. Donut notices. “Sorry. I just...morning. Stuff. Mindfulness. I was remembering yesterday and I just…” He trails off.

Donut laughs. “You’re sweet, Wash. You’re really sweet.” He leans in. “I keep meaning to tell you that, but I don’t because I know what it must sound like to _you_. All this...elite training. And then I think about calling the guy who shot me sweet, right before I tell him that I came here this morning because I was thinking about the day before, and how nothing happened the way I wanted it to happen.

“And then I think about how we can all hold different people inside of us. How you can be cold and exacting, when you want to be. But I watched you do a puzzle with Caboose three days ago, and I was thinking about how much _good_ there was in you. So I woke up this morning and I figured I’d come here and I’d tell you.

“I think you’re sweet.”

Wash doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. How much more he can be open to one person. The last months have been a constant experiment in exposure. Like how long can he lay out in the sun without drying out, without catching on fire? Because Donut _is_ a star, a bright burning thing that catches Wash at all the right angles, most days. A few wrong ones on some others.

They’d kissed, and that was all. Just long, drawn out moments of mouths on mouths, on shoulders and necks. And now Donut is leaning in and his hand is on Wash’s knee and he asks, gently, “Is this alright?”

And Wash nods.

“Can I hear you?” Donut asks.

“Yes. Yes, it’s good. It’s alright.” Wash brings his hands up, holds Donut’s face close. “It’s more than alright.”

Wash hears Artemis slink out of the open door, and realizes they’re exposed. He rises, closes it, and turns to find Donut perched on the edge of the bed, rubbing his knees and looking around. Wash turns the lock.

“I tried to ask yesterday,” Donut says. “I saw...I saw you had—”

Wash looks at the bedside table sharply. He’s had condoms there for a while. Before Donut, he thought...well. It doesn’t matter what he thought, or _who_ he thought it would be. Not now, anyway. Now, he goes and fits between Donut’s knees, reaching down to brush the curls from his forehead.

Wash has a killer’s hands, but he learned a long time ago those don’t look much different from anyone else’s. He turns his focus away from that. Donut said he forgives him, he’s said it a hundred times. Donut was the one to kiss first, to chase and hold and tell Wash that he could touch him when he thought it could _never_ happen. Donut was the one to laugh and tell him that he was sorry for holding him at arm’s length, in the same breath that Wash said he was sorry for _never saying sorry_.

“Look at us, Donut had whispered. “Quite a pair.”

“One big mess.”

“Yeah. But our mess.”

And now Wash looks down and he laughs, and Donut laughs and he says, “I think you should...you should be the one—”

Wash cuts him off with a kiss. “You want me to fuck you?”

Donut groans. Nods. “ _Yes._ ”

Wash reluctantly takes his hands away and reaches down to pull his shirt up. He’s put on some weight, built up his muscle mass. It’ll never be what it was, just like Wash will never be the same, but he’s okay with that, most days.

The Old Wash never would have stopped breathing when Donut took off his shirt, or laughed, _giddy_ at the prospect of sex and skin and contact. Maybe twenty year old Wash would have, but even then he was mostly a nervous wreck.

Now, he pulls Donut’s bottom lip between his teeth and kisses the hollow of his throat and shudders when their cocks brush against one another through thin fabric.

And now Wash is tired of wondering, tired of waiting. He draws Donut’s sweats over his hips and down his thighs, exposing his cock to the cool morning air. It’s a good size and Wash aches, for a moment, to be the one to lower himself onto it, to stretch and prep himself and be the one who gets to be _full_.

But Donut asked, and Wash is desperate to give him anything he wants. It is a terrifying feeling, and he rejoices in it.

Wash wants to taste, so he licks his palm and takes Donut’s cock in hand, giving him a few firm strokes.

“ _Ah_ —” Donut arches into the touch, head jerking back. “Careful—”

“You could come from that?”

“Look, it’s _been_ a while.”

Wash laughs. “Yeah. We can go slower,” he says.

Donut nods. “...Maybe. Yeah.”

“I could just…” Wash drags his tongue from base to tip and Donut groans.

It’s uneventful, considering it’s the first time Wash has seen someone or been seen naked in a long time. It ends with mouths on mouths as Wash slots their cocks together and lets Donut thrust into his hand, before they both come, Wash a few minutes later, chests both slick with it. Donut’s hand comes up to trace the curve of Wash’s neck, over his implants, around and down, before resting just over his heart.

 

* * *

 

Carolina is swimming alone. Wash hasn’t done laps in eleven years, so he dives in with little form, and comes up to find her treading in the lane beside him.

“Sarge cancelled on me.”

“I heard,” Wash says. Sarge’s one treatment was having rather long lasting side effects. It made Wash uncomfortable to hear he was in bed still at nine AM. “I came to swim with you.”

Carolina turns and free styles back to the edge. Wash does frog kicks and hangs into the concrete wall beside her. “I come here to relax, Wash. Not get yelled at.”

“I’m here to say I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I was...heated, yesterday. Not thinking straight. I know you feel bad about how it went down, I’ve heard you. I just…”

“You care about him. I do, too. But we had the situation under control, we knew what we were getting into. Race you to the other side and back.” She kicks off and Wash swears, trying to catch up with her. Swimming was never his thing. He little sister Laura loved it. Made dive team in middle school. Tried to teach him the butterfly every summer for four years. “You’re out of shape.”

“Cut me some slack.”

Carolina laughs. “Never.” She wipes the water from her face. “Caboose is important to me, too. Church—” She sighs. “He never said it, not in a way that was obvious to anyone else, but...Caboose and Tucker were really important to him. They mattered. I don’t know what his goodbye was to either of them, I don’t know if he even said anything, but he loved those guys and I feel like me and you...we have to love them, too.”

Wash nods. “I know.”

“I’ll admit, putting Caboose in a bulletproof vest in a situation he didn’t totally understand wasn’t...my best moment. But I stand by the results. We made the right choice. No more bombings.”

“Yeah, that’s a relief.”

“Tell Donut I appreciate the intel he was able to get. Turns out he actually did help.” Carolina puts her elbows on the edge. Wash mimics her. “Some of the newest recruits were plants from Arcadia. They placed the bombs. Donut found their names, Kimball rooted them out.”

Wash nods. “He’ll like hearing that.”

Carolina looks sidelong at him. “Especially from you.”

Wash sighs. “I won’t take this abuse.”

“Sarge caught you _Frenching._ God, Wash, are you sixteen?”

“No. No, I’m…” In love? No, too soon. In the throes of something not quite nameable?

Yes, but how do you tell someone that?

“I care about him. I’ve invested. I like being with him.”

Carolina nods. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

She looks up at the clock on the wall. “Ten laps with me. Think you can do it?”

Wash nods. “Yeah. I think so.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re looking good,” Dr. Yue says. He holds up his tablet. “I got your physical from Dr. Grey.”

“I’m too skinny still, she says. But I think she’s being a little subjective on that.”

Yue laughs. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. Talk to me about the memory loss. It’s been a couple months since we touched on it.”

Wash explains the system, how Caboose helped him work it out and how it’s been helping. How the morning mindfulness workouts have been keeping him in line.

“I remembered breakfast.”

“It helps when you eat the same thing every day, but that’s a good way to give yourself a win.” Yue holds out a hand. “Can I see the book?”

Wash almost passes it over, then remembers that he wrote out a very detailed paragraph about exactly what it felt like when he came and Donut was looking up him and their noses were touching and he kissed him and Donut asked if it was good and if he was okay and Wash could only nod.

“It’s alright if you don’t want me to see it,” Yue says. “I’m sure some of it is very private.”

“I’m in...a relationship. I think. But I keep being worried I’ll forget important things. So I write them down.”

Dr. Yue looks pleased. “A relationship. So something’s...developed. Something’s grown. Despite your misgivings.”

Wash laughs and looks down, flips the book open to the last page —

_I think I see something bigger than myself in the eyes of everyone, but especially him. I didn’t see his face when I thought I’d killed him and I’m glad that I didn’t because if I had, I think it’s all I’d see when he looked at me._

_And I love it when he looks at me._

“The captain? The one you’ve spent time trying to make amends with?”

“Donut. Yeah.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Wash closes the book. “Alive. Better than before. I missed what it felt like being near someone. I missed...well. I don’t know if you want to hear—”

“I do.” Yue leans forward.

Wash sighs. “I’d missed what it felt like to...hold someone. To be intimate. Kissing someone and knowing they want to be there with you. I know it’s stupid—”

“It isn’t,” Yue says. “It’s very much the opposite. I think it’s _brilliant_ that you’re so open with someone else. This is an intense place of vulnerability, Wash. Your entire relationship with Donut has been like this. Where you are now is natural. Don’t you think?”

Wash nods. “Yeah. It feels that way.”

“I’m glad. Here—” He reaches down and picks something up. “I don’t know how much journaling you’re doing—”

“A little, here and there. To keep me in the moment.”

“That’s good. I’d like you to have a dedicated place for it. It’s one thing to write down appointments or important thing you did or said, but to have a journal of your _emotions_ , when you may be worried you’ll forget them, is vital. So this is for you.” He holds out a black leather notebook. “I’m encouraging several of my patients to do this. It’s about free associating, just getting your thoughts down onto paper. Nothing needs to make sense, and I’ll never look at them. But if it’s something you’re interested in doing, I’d like to know how it goes.”

Wash takes the book. “...Thank you.”

Dr. Yue nods. “I hope it helps, Wash. I really do.”

 

* * *

 

It’s late when Wash gets back one evening from training. There’s lamp light spilling out from under his door. He opens it carefully, hand on the pistol at his side, because even though he _knows_ what’s there, even though his brain reminds him, _remember that you allowed this to happen_ , his instincts kick into high gear.

Donut is reading on his bed, Artemis sitting on his chest. He looks up over the book and Wash cringes when he sees it.

“Please put _Martian Expedition_ volume twelve _back_ where you found it, Donut.”

“But I like it!”

“You have to read the _first eleven_ before you can understand,” Wash says, going to his dresser and taking his gun from the holster. He works at his belt, now fully invested in explaining to Donut why you can’t just pick up a thirty-six book series a third of the way in and _like_ it. “Captain Higsby is a _hero_ to his men and he’s going to turn Mars into—”

Donut appears at his side, setting the book on the dresser and pulling Wash close. “Turn Mars into what?” he asks, kissing Wash’s neck.

“A, um. A new…” He takes a deep breath. “ _God_ —”

“Tell me.” Donut picks at the belt buckle that Wash abandoned, eventually getting it undone.

“A new Eden. _Fuck_ , Donut—”

“I know we were talking about going slow—” He _pushes_ , and Wash goes, backing up against the dresser while Donut tugs at the button-fly of his fatigues and carefully reaches in. “But I’d like to...go faster, for a night.”

“ _Hnn_ —” Wash groans and lets his head fall back as Donut wraps a hand around his cock.

“If you want to go slow, I’ll go slow. If you want to stop, I’ll stop.” He leans in, lips brushing against Wash’s for just a second before he pulls back and says, “But I want to be _with_ you, and I want you to—” He laughs, hiding his face against Wash’s chest.

“Hey.” Wash tips his chin up, forces Donut to look at him. They kiss, and Wash urges him toward the bed.

Hands tug at clothes, pull at buttons and pants and bury themselves in hair. Wash winds up on his back, arching up as Donut moves down his chest and eventually takes his cock into his mouth. “ _Fuck_ —” He bucks up, but Donut doesn’t stop, squeezing the base of his cock. Wash gets lost for a minute, in the heat of a mouth on him, of someone pressing against him, someone _wanting_ him.

Donut pulls off, and Wash hears him digging through the bedside table.

“Is this okay?” Donut asks, his face suddenly in front of Wash’s.

Wash nods. “Yes.” He kisses him. “I want it, I want _you_.”

Donut grins. “I like hearing that. I like hearing _you_ say that.”

When Donut finally pulls his fingers out, Wash is a limbless mess. Every part of him is loose and open and his entire body _reacts_ to the sound of Donut tearing open the condom wrapper.

“S’good, still?”

Wash pulls him in, kisses him hard. “ _Yes_ , it’s good. _Yes_ , I want you to fuck me. Come _on_.”

Donut laughs, rests his forehead on Wash’s shoulder. “Okay. _Okay_.” He lines himself up and it only takes a roll of his hips to push in. Wash tenses, then relaxes because Donut didn’t do all of that work for nothing. And he’s going to enjoy this. He’s going to enjoy the way Donut’s soft pants get louder, the way he gets deeper every few thrusts, until Wash feels a steady press against his prostate. He moans, wrapping one leg around Donut’s waist.

“ _Wash_ —” His thrusts become more urgent, the pace more demanding. Wash puts a hand behind Donut’s head, tries to kiss him, but can barely move without every nerve sending a flash through him, his brain just repeating, _it’s good, it’s good, it’s good_ —

And then he sees it, the faintest thing. He didn’t see it the other night, he was too caught up in _naked_ and _orgasms_ and just —

“What’s wrong?” Donut slows down and Wash wishes he wouldn’t, but how is he supposed to _keep going_ when he’s looking at the place where a bullet he fired _almost killed_ the first person he’s been intimate with in ten years — “It’s just a scar.”

Wash blinks. Looks up. “What?”

Donut’s pace slows, but he doesn’t stop and that might be _worse._ He’s going to fuck Wash through some emotional journey because of all the promises Wash has made, he’s kept the first one he made to Donut — he never brings up what happened.

“It just a scar. It’s just a place where a bullet went in.”

“I _put it_ there.”

Donut groans, like this might be killing him again. “We’ve _talked_ about this. We’ve beat this up over and over and I _forgive_ you. I forgive you and I’m here and you’ve done everything to make it right. For real, this time.” Donut stops, but he doesn’t pull out. He leans in, kisses Wash slow and calm. “People can say what they want, but I...I _know_ you, now. I made this choice.” And now he pulls out, slow, and thrusts back in.

Wash _chokes_ on sentiment.

And it’s good.

“I’m not gonna let this go,” Donut says. “I’m not gonna let _you_ go.” Wash nods, and Donut starts back up, in earnest. Wash pleads for me, a litany of _yes yes yes_ tumbling out as he reaches down and jacks himself off, coming when one thrust strikes especially hard, sending a shock of pleasure through him. He comes and Donut just keeps going, keeps thrusting until he comes with a groan.

It’s a heavy thing, when they part. Donut gets up to toss the condom, and Wash lays there, staring at the ceiling, wondering where his cat’s gone.

“She was hiding in the bathroom.” Donut brings Artemis over to the bed. “I think we spooked her.”

Artemis wriggles away from Donut as Wash sits up, settling in his lap. “Sorry girl,” Wash says, before getting up to open the balcony. She dashes out and sprints into the night. “If I die, let her go feral.” He goes back to Donut who leans against the wall and laughs. “Should I have my bed closer to the center of the room?”

“Nah, I like it this way.” Donut reaches out and Wash takes his hand. “I forgive you.”

“I know.”

“Just...wanted to say it again.” He looks over. “Do you forgive yourself yet?”

Wash shrugs. “Not for everything.”

Donut nods. “Yeah. I imagine it’d be hard. I just...I do. Okay?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I made the choice. Me. No one gets to tell me otherwise.”

Wash feels... _endeared._ He reaches out, cups Donut’s cheek, and draws him in. “I could love you,” he says. “I think I might.”

Donut laughs and nods. “Yeah. I think I might love you, too.”

They stay like that for a while, until Artemis comes back and drops something dead on the balcony and Wash has to pretend to love it. He’s pulling on a sweater because it’s really not that late and Donut keeps complaining that he’s hungry, and that’s when it hits him, that’s when he realizes —

“She said _we._ ”

Donut is pulling on his jeans. “What?”

“I did laps with Carolina this week, we talked about Caboose and she...she said _we made the right choice._ Like she’d planned what happened with someone else.”

Donut shrugs. “Caboose maybe?”

“No. Caboose didn’t know, that was literally essential to the plan. Caboose tells people things when he knows stuff.”

“Oh yeah! Yeah, he’s terrible at that. Can I borrow a shirt?”

“Of course.” Wash moves so Donut can dig through the dresser. “Who else was there? Do you know?”

Donut pulls on a plaid button down. “No. Does this make me look like a farmer?”

“Everything makes you look like a farmer, we’re _both_ from Iowa. Why wouldn’t she tell me about someone else?”

“Because you might get mad again?” He tucks the front of the shirt into his jeans and goes for his shoes. “Can we eat before we play detective?” he whines. “I’m very hungry.”

“Yeah, of course.” Wash grabs his keys and slips on his shoes before going to shut the balcony door. “It’s just...weird. That’s all.”

 

* * *

 

Wash hits a dead end with his miniature investigation later in the week, and calls Donut to complain from his office.

“ _Wash, I am so busy. Like,_ really _busy._ ”

“No one else was on the flight except Smith and the team. Smith says he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.”

“ _Well, maybe it was just a mistake. Olivia, hon, can you tack those up....yes it’s Agent Washington._ ” Donut sighs. “ _Olivia says hi._ ”

“...Uh, hi.” Donut’s silence says, _you don’t remember her do you_ and Wash coughs loudly. “I’ll uh. I’ll leave you alone.”

“ _That would be best, agent. I’ll see you tonight._ ”

“Yeah, see you.” Wash hangs up and leans forward. He has a little legal pad with notes scrawled on it. He’s crossing off _Smith and the guys_ as Tucker knocks on the door frame. Wash looks up and remembers what Carolina said, that Church had cared about Tucker and Caboose in a way like _love_ , like brotherhood.

Tucker looks troubled. Wash stands.

“What’s wrong?”

“I, um. I’m just—” He shuts the door before he sits, bouncing on the edge of the chair. “You ever think that we’re...like we’re being used? I mean, maybe not you because, like. You’re useful. But I’m just...I’m not—”

“Tucker.” Wash comes around the desk and sits on the corner. “You are useful.”

“No I know. That’s kind of what I mean, though. Like you’re useful because you have years of training and you’re a death machine—”

“Hey.”

Tucker glances at him. “Right, okay. Better nickname. You’re a... _super soldier._ Were a super soldier. Dude, _whatever._ The point is I’m a sim trooper with a cool title and a sword and six soldiers who can shoot alien guns real good. I got two more, by the way.”

“That’s great.”

“Is it? Because sometimes it just…it feels like me and Caboose and the Reds are only here to clean up a mess. To do a job we won’t have pretty soon. UNSC is breathing down my neck, Wash. Have you talked to Caboose today?”

Wash hadn’t talked to Caboose since they’d sparred a few days before. He’d been fine, trying to show off in front of Kai.

“I haven’t.”

“He had a meeting this morning, and he’s...upset. But I can’t get him to talk to me about it and Kai’s at work. Maybe you...could go back to the apartment, see what’s wrong? It has something to do with his work and he kept saying they were gonna take it from him and it just...got me thinking.” He looks at Wash. “What if the UNSC isn’t here to help? What if they’re here to _take?_ ”

“They’ve been hands-off as far as I’m concerned.”

“Yeah, with _you._ But they take Grif and Simmons’ notes and hover around their site all day and they bring different people in to observe me and if they’ve upset Caboose I’m gonna hit someone. He’s fucking been through enough the last year and this fucking job was good for him. Even if, you know. He got shot.”

Wash nods. “Right.”

Tucker cringes. “Oh, yeah. You’re, uh—”

“I talked to Carolina. Told her I was sorry. I owe you an apology, too. You know Caboose better than anyone. I should...defer to you, where he’s concerned.”

Tucker sags in his seat. “I dunno. Maybe. Me and Church...we were tough on him. It’s half our fault he’s like this. Forgetful and shit. We weren’t good to him. Maybe I defended C because we used to use Caboose as bait all the time. Didn’t even faze us.”

“Things are different now, Tucker.” He remembers what Donut said the night before. “It’s hard to forgive yourself. But it’s good to work toward it.”

Tucker looks up and nods, standing. “Right. Okay. I...feel better. Um—” He moves to shake Wash’s hand but winds up pulling him in for a hug. “Thanks.”

Wash tenses, then eases into it. “Anything you need, Tucker.”

Tucker laughs and pulls back. “Yeah. Hey, you know what I need right now? Deets. On you and _Donut._ ”

“Okay, meeting over.”

“Is he, like—” Tucker holds his hands apart. “Or—”

“Get _out_ , Lavernius.”

“Is he a good kisser? I bet he’s a good kisser. Oh! Does he suck—”

Wash shuts the door and locks it for effect, before going back to his desk and his legal pad.

 

* * *

 

Caboose is in the gym, going hard at the bag. It turns out Tucker was right, that he had a meeting that went south. Carolina is in the kitchen, working through a second glass of wine.

“They want to replace Caboose with Commander Tuthill.”

Donut comes in and shudders. “Every time you say his _name_ , an evil spirit plasses over this house.” He stops and kisses Wash on the cheek. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Wash turns to Carolina. “Why would they do that?”

Carolina winces. “...Because of Arcadia.”

“I’m sorry?”

She sighs. “Tuthill is claiming that Caboose is...incompetent. That he didn’t do his job right and should have see that Governor Lewis was a screwball. That if he had, the bombings would have stopped sooner. Or not happened at all.”

Donut slam the fridge door shut. “He’s _blaming_ the bombings on _Caboose?_ ” Carolina nods. “I _do not_ like that man. I mean, you’d think he’d be fine just messing with Tucker, but trying to pin all that on Caboose?” He shakes his head. “He’s got it out for us. Frankly? They’ve all got it out for us.”

Wash frowns. “What do you mean?”

Donut shrugs. “Just that I can’t do anything anymore with some uniform hanging around. Now everything I send to Kimball needs to have UNSC approval on it. I was working totally red tape free not _two_ months ago.”

“...Tucker’s right.”

Carolina drains her glass. “About what?”

“He said he’s got UNSC crawling all over his training sessions. Grif and Simmons keep hitting roadblocks that weren’t there before. Tuthill wants to push Caboose out—”

“They’re making a play for the planet.”

Wash nods. “They’re making a play for the planet.”

Carolina sighs, and the kitchen grows very quiet. Eventually, she says, “Are you surprised?”

“...No.”

“Kimball’s a relic from a war the UNSC thinks should never have happened. The people trust the Reds and Blues. Eventually, they’ll see the UNSC was there the whole time. The way they feel about some sim trooper has-beens will change. It’ll be easy to elect someone else over Kimball. God—” She fills her glass again. “If it isn’t one kind of bullshit, it’s another, isn’t it?”

Wash nods and sits down beside her. He glances at Donut, who presses his lips together and says, “I’m gonna go check on Caboose,” before disappearing down to the gym.

Wash allows Carolina to stew in all this before he says, “What did you mean the other day, when you said, _we made the right choice?_ ”

Carolina stares into her glass. “Me and Caboose. Force of habit, we were a _we_ for two and a half months.”

Wash shakes his head. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

He nods. “Yes. You are.”

Carolina looks at him. She gets up, gets another glass and pours one for Wash. “I’m sleeping with Locus.”

Wash made a mistake taking a drink right away. He _chokes._ “ _Holy_ —”

“Take your time, princess.”

“Are you fucking—”

“Yes, we are fucking.”

“No! No, I meant—” Wash wipes the wine from his mouth. “Are you serious?”

“Very.” Carolina takes a thoughtful sip and sits down. “We met up on one of the settlements. He’s been helping. Sometimes we’d have sex. Other times we’d just...talk.”

Wash frowns. “So this, like...like something you’re serious about?”

She shrugs. “Are you serious about Donut?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose I’m serious, too.” Carolina looks at him. “When Sam — _Locus_ , wound up in Arcadia that day, he thought it was strange. He’d been suspicious of Lewis for a while. Said he was far too pleasant.” She smiles, like there’s a memory associated with that. Probably is. A sex one. Wash shakes off the image. “Look, I trust him. I enjoy him. Keep it from you was a mistake, obviously, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

Wash drains his glass, too, now. “Jesus. I don’t know, he saved my life. I mean, I’m glad he hasn’t, you know. Gone back over, or whatever. But I guess it’s just weird. Kind of weird. Maybe.”

“Weirder than you and Donut bumping uglies?”

“I did not _advertise_ that we had sex, why is everyone—” Wash stops. “I hate it when you trick me.”

“ _God_ , you walked _right_ into that.” She gets up and kisses Wash’s forehead. “I’m gonna go relieve Donut of Caboose duty. He’s not getting replaced anytime soon, and Donut doesn’t deserve whatever fresh hell Caboose considers ‘training’ tonight.”

Wash listens to her head down the stairs, then listens as Donut comes back up, shirtless, covered in sweat.

“Jesus, what happened?”

“Caboose. _Caboose_ happened, Washington.” Wash laughs as Donut takes the wine bottle and finishes it off. “I love that guy, but he is not meant for the indoors.”

“Needs a nice big farm to run around on?”

“Yes. God, my mom would _love_ Caboose. She’d get him to push all the heavy things out of the way, get him to run around with the collies and herd the sheep back in himself. She’d spoil him.” He looks down at Wash. “She’d love you, too.”

“I’m pretty strong.”

“Can you move a tractor with your bare hands?”

“I can’t, and it upsets me that it seems to be your baseline on strength. Caboose is not normal.”

Donut laughs and leans down, kissing Wash and slipping a wine-slick tongue into his mouth. “No one here is normal, babe. You should know _that_ by now.”

Wash groans. UNSC problems can wait. They’ll still be there tomorrow and the next day and even into next month. They’re not making a move for a while.

Meanwhile, Donut is ready and _willing_ to sit on Wash’s dick, judging by the absolute filth he’s whispering in his ear, and Wash can’t drag him upstairs fast enough.


	11. early childhood development 255 (tucker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker and Junior have a lot in common, and don't even know it. Caboose realizes something important.

_I know you’re gonna be pissed, and I’m sorry. You’re gonna hold this against me because you probably get the concept of self-deletion as much as you get holograms. Dumbass. But you asked me once, a really long, long time ago if I thought you were a good kid._

_And yeah, Tucker._

_I always thought you were a good kid._

_So take care of the other one. Keep an eye on Caboose. I should have been nicer, probably. Should have told him that I cared, or that I kind of liked the attention and everything. It’s weird, him shooting me was really the start of everything. I wonder if I’d have ever known. If the Alpha would have ever figured it out._

_If I would be the Epsilon I am._

_Or...was. I’m past tense now. Sorry to do that to you._

_Sorry to leave you behind._

_But I know you’re gonna do great. I just know it._

 

* * *

 

Commander Tuthill lost the hacking chip on his hand, so Tucker no longer has access to his boring and, frankly, _disgusting_ emails and internet history. Probably for the best. Even he thinks it’s nasty.

But now that the link is down, he’s treading ocean water again as far as Junior is concerned.

He and Simmons try brainstorming, but Simmons has enough problems of his own. He’s bringing his _dad_ to Chorus, so the man can, according to Grif, die with what little dignity he has left. So Tucker leaves that alone and starts bugging Wash. They’d had a row a couple weeks back, about Caboose and Carolina and everything, but they’re good now, and Wash knows what the UNSC is up to so he’s trying to figure out if there’s anything they can do.

Unfortunately that means his advice about Junior is to drop it. For now.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Tucker, I know finding your son is important to you—”

“No, you _don’t._ Because if you did you wouldn’t be telling me to give up!”

Wash sighs and puts his face in both hands. Tucker wonders why he doesn’t color his hair. He’s way too young for so much grey. “I’m not telling you to give up,” he says into his palms before lifting his head. “I’m asking you to take it easy. You start poking your nose where it doesn’t belong and Tuthill will make your life ten times harder.”

“My life is already hard—”

“Bow chicka,” Wash murmurs, and then smiles. Tucker can’t help it.

He laughs.

And then it’s like they can’t stop. And suddenly all the dumb shit that was sitting in front of him seems laughable, it seems ridiculous, it seems surpassable.

Tucker collapses into the chair in front of Wash’s desk and lets his head fall back as his chest recovers. When he looks up, Wash is pulling out a notebook. He scrawls something across the page in his nasty handwriting, then puts it away. “Are you writing down when you _laugh?_ ”

Wash nods. “Sort of. I’m...free associating. With my feelings.”

“So journaling. Donut’s rubbing off on you. Literally and figuratively.”

Wash rolls his eyes. “Dr. Yue suggested it.” He leans back in his chair. “You have weapons training in ten minutes. Go, then do something for yourself. Maybe think about why I’m suggesting this. You’re dangerously close to putting yourself in a place where Tuthill will be able to do whatever he wants with you. And that includes a court martialing and possibly kicking you off the planet.”

“He couldn’t.”

“He could and he might. It’s totally within the realm of possibility.” Wash sits forward again and opens his laptop. “Now beat it, I’m behind on reports.”

Tucker groans and pushes himself out of the chair. Wash is right, he needs to refocus, evaluate the options, make a concerted effort to plan better. Wash is right about training, too. His recruits are impressive, even with a UNSC officer constantly evaluating them. And he’s added a couple to the program. Tucker shoulders open the door to the training room and his recruits stand at attention.

 

* * *

 

“One deep breath, captain.”

“Kay, you don’t have to do this.”

“I do. You’re my patient and my charts are being evaluated this week. Pure professionalism.”

Tucker sighs and takes a breath while she listens to his heartbeat.

“Now exhale.” Tucker does as he’s told. “Alright. Shirt on. Anything unusual to report?”

“Uh—”

“Change in vision? Bowel habits?”

“Dude.”

She glances up and grins. “I’m just fucking with you. You’re good. I’ll send the chart to Kimball, have you checked off the list.”

Tucker nods. Everyone needs a physical to stay current with UNSC policies. He heard Grif’s was a doozy.

Kai leans back against the counter with all the little tongue depressors and organ models. “How’re you holding up? I heard you’re at a dead end with Tuthill.”

Tucker nods. “I’m good, just...frustrated. Kind of worried what I might do, you know?”

“Like you’re at your wit’s end, who knows what you’ll do next, kind of thing?”

“Yeah. I just keep thinking...everyone here knows more than they say. Everyone’s bullshitting about something, and I can’t fucking trust them. Junior’s out there, I believe it.”

“Have you gone to someone else?” She starts putting her equipment away.

“Like, ten other people. No one will agree to go over Tuthill’s head on this. You know he’s been this unit’s ambassador to the Sangheili for, like, fifteen years? That’s such garbage, he hates them. I mean, yeah, there was a war, but like...that’s over.”

Kai shrugs. “Maybe _you_ could be their ambassador.”

Tucker snorts. “Yeah. _Funny._ ”

“Uh, I’m being serious? You did something like that before. Why couldn’t you do it again?”

“Because the UNSC hates me.”

Kai rolls her eyes. “You don’t know that. You just know they’re lying to you. But if you could talk to someone at the _very_ top about Tuthill, maybe they’d give you a shot. What’s his name, Rice?”

Tucker nods. Sergeant Rice is in charge, and he’s actually a fan of the Reds and Blues. Caboose especially. “...Maybe,” he says. “ _Maybe._ ”

“You won’t know until you try.”

“We’ll see,” he says. “So...how’s it going with Caboose?”

“Good.” They don’t talk much about it, or to one another. Tucker had had a brief hope, a while back, that he and Kai might have been able to make a connection. They had once before, sort of. But she’d fallen so hard and so fast for Caboose, he’d let it go. He’d let being her friend go, too, and now he regrets it.

She was there. And she understands.

“So what’s the big deal with him, huh? Like what won you over?” He’s trying to act like a better friend lately, to everyone.

Kai looks up. “You really wanna know?”

“Yeah. I do. Come on, we’re...close. You and me.”

“We’re not.”

“And that’s…my fault, I know. I just—”

“It’s not your fault. It takes two people to be friends, Tucker.” She steps closer. “I know you wanted something different to happen, and I’m sorry it didn’t work out like you expected.”

Tucker shakes his head. “I’m not. You make Caboose happy. He deserves that. You both do.”

Kai smiles. “Thanks…” She looks at her shoes. “I like you. You’re good to Caboose and you’re trying to be a good dad. I had a lousy one, so I appreciate that. I’ll work on being a better friend.”

Tucker nods. “Me, too.” They stand awkwardly there for a minute before he says, “So is his dick like…”

“It’s _amazing_ ,” she says, and Tucker throws his hands up.

“Alright, _alright._ Shouldn’t have asked. I’m done, I’m leaving.”

“Tucker, dude, it’s like _this_ —”

“ _No_ ,” he says, and runs away.

 

* * *

 

He thinks about what she said for a while, though. He could do Tuthill’s job. He could be an ambassador again. Better, this time. He could learn the language.

“Hey, Sheila.”

“ _Yes, Tucker?_ ”

“Is there anyone on Chorus besides Tuthill who speaks Sangheili?”

“ _I’ll check._ ” She’s silent for a moment before she says, “ _Commander Tuthill has no known languages besides English on his official record, but Lieutenant Singh is quite fluent. Should I send her a message?_ ”

“Uh, no. Not yet.” Tucker rolls over. “Thanks, Sheila.”

“ _Of course, Tucker._ ”

 

* * *

 

A few days pass. Tucker feels listless in training. He lets Caboose beat the crap out of him in the sparring ring, then Donut. Both seem worried about him. He’s put so much energy into trying to solve this problem, into all that _make it count_ garbage Kimball and Wash kept saying to him that he has no idea what to do with himself now that a huge part of his brain isn’t totally keyed into that.

And then he finds out about the Officer’s Ball — and everything changes.

“Everyone will be there?” he asks, crowding Grif against the counter that morning.

Grif looks _genuinely_ frightened. “...Yes?”

“Good.”

“Uh, you’re supposed to be there, too.”

“Huh?”

Grif sighs. “It’s an _officer’s_ thing. You’re a captain. Everyone’s gonna be there.”

“Oh. Yeah, I know.”

Grif shakes his head. “Uh-uh. You’re thinking about Tuthill being distracted. You’re thinking about doing something stupid.”

Tucker opens his mouth to lie, but he and Grif have always kind of thought the same way. Wouldn’t do any good to bullshit a bullshitter.

“He’ll be out of his apartment for a guaranteed amount of time. If I can get in—”

“Bad idea,” Simmons says, walking into the kitchen. “You’ll never do it alone. Soon as Tuthill knows you’re not there, he’ll be suspicious. Guy hates you.”

“ _Fine._ I will get someone to help me.”

Grif snorts. “Who? Caboose? May as well court martial _yourself._ Wash won’t approve, you know that. Carolina _might_ help, but don’t count on it.”

Tucker shrugs. “Fine. You can help me.”

Simmons looks at him. “That could work. We’ll have eyes on Tuthill all night, wouldn’t be hard to have one of us in contact with you.” He pulls off the lid of his yogurt. “You think there’s anything in his apartment?”

“I do.”

Simmons nods. “Okay. I’ll help you.”

Grif raises a brow. “Seriously? You’re going to help Tucker break into a superior officer’s apartment?”

“Yes. Tuthill sucks. Tucker deserves to see his kid. Case closed.” He looks between them. “I can be badass and spontaneous.”

“No,” Grif says. “You can’t.” He puts a hand on Simmons’ shoulder. “But this is a good place to start.”

 

* * *

 

Tucker decides being in Tuthill’s apartment might be the best way possible to get some dirt. Anything he could give to Rice to try and get the guy reassigned would be ideal, so Tucker starts planning. It’s shoddy, and there’s a good chance it’s all going to collapse around him, but —

It’s worth it, if he can get even a moment closer to seeing Junior again.

Kind of all goes against what Church asked him to do. To look after Caboose. To _do great._ Breaking into Tuthill’s apartment, blackmailing him, possibly — none of it is especially awesome, but Tuthill’s a dick and Tucker doesn’t care what happens.

Besides, Church is dead.

He’d probably tell him to go for it anyway.

Simmons says the event starts at seven. He’ll have his assistant do some of his tasks, while he keeps an eye on Tuthill and keeps in contact with Tucker.

“This is your earpiece and radio. It’s set to the same frequency as mine, so _don’t_ mess with it.” He picks them up off his desk and hands both to Tucker. “I’m serious.”

“Uh, I think I can handle it.”

Simmons stares. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” He hands Tucker the night’s itinerary. “Everything’s completely scheduled. Kimball wanted it kept tight—”

“Bow chicka.”

Simmons doesn’t even blink. “—so that’s what we did.”

“You guys threw this together in just a couple days?”

“Yes. It wasn’t especially difficult. It’s just a dumb party. Have food and alcohol, set off some fireworks.” Simmons shrugs. “Everyone’s happy.”

Tucker nods and looks over the schedule. It _is_ tight, down to the last second. That’s good, though. It gives Tucker a good time limit. “I’ll sneak in after the first cocktail hour. That gives me a good forty-five minutes in his place.”

“Sounds good.” Simmons goes to sit behind his desk and starts shuffling things around. He’s been...distracted. Kind of off. Tucker hasn’t asked much about his dad, or when he’s getting there, but he is curious about one thing.

“Why are you helping me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I mean. Why the help? You _barely_ wanted to help me when I planted the chip on Tuthill. What’s the deal?”

Simmons shrugs. “I just feel bad for you.”

“No you don’t.”

Simmons looks up and sighs. “Alright, look. My dad is going to be here in, like, a week. I _hate_ my dad. I’m going to have to _deal_ with my dad, someone who didn’t want anything to do with me for, like, years.” He shrugs. “You’re just trying to be a good father,” he says, echoing Kaikaina without realizing it. “I like that about you. You’re a dick a lot of times, but this is something good about you and I think it’d be stupid not to help you get what you want.” He gives Tucker a smile. “I _really_ hope there’s something in there. For _both_ our sakes.”

 

* * *

 

The ball is a few days away, so Tucker takes the time to spend it with Caboose. He knows Tuthill is gunning for Caboose’s job, which he’d probably be worse at than the one he has now. Better to get the guy completely off Chorus, let Caboose keep doing what he loves, and at _least_ get his kid back in the process.

Caboose has been trying to maintain a garden behind the apartment, but he’s been gone so much it’s mostly Katie Jensen’s garden at this point. Now that Caboose is in the capitol more, though, he spends a lot of time digging there, when he isn’t training or overseeing supply runs here and there.

Tucker’s impressed. It’s fall and there’s a lot to harvest. He didn’t know Chorus’s soil was good for it.

“I learned some things,” Caboose says, and carefully reaches into the dirt to pull out a bulbous thing, like a root. “From some farmers on my trip.” He cradles what is apparently a golden beet in his palms and sets it in a basket. “About when to grow things. Next year,” he says. “Next year will be better.”

Tucker helps him pull a few things up. “Are you looking forward to the officer’s thing?”

Caboose shrugs, shifting on his knees. “Not very much.”

“Oh. I thought you might like it a lot.”

Caboose shakes his head. “Everyone knows I made the wrong choice, now. Everyone knows what I thought they would know. That I am not very good at this. The helping people thing. Not the growing. I am very good at growing, I think.”

“You’re good at _both._ ”

“No.” He looks at Tucker. “I made a terrible choice.”

“You trusted someone. That isn’t _bad._ Dude, if anyone knows anything about trusting the wrong person, it’s me. And Kimball, god.”

“I guess so.” He goes back to pulling up the beets. “I do not want to stop doing this. I _like_ do this. I like being here. It is...hard. Not having a home. Especially now that I don’t wear my helmet as much. I thought…” He trails off. “Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

“No,” Tucker says. “Tell me.”

Caboose sighs. He sets the last beet in the basket and tugs off his gloves before sitting cross legged on the ground. “I used to have a home. And then I didn’t. And then Blood Gulch was home, and then it wasn’t. I figured out that... _I_ am home, which is very nice, but then I stopped feeling that way. I didn’t...feel at home. With myself. I felt very alone.

“I’m not alone, of course. I know this. And I feel much better because you and I are better friends, even though you’re very stupid.”

“Dude.”

“And I love Kai very much,” he says, firmly. He moves to kneel by the marigolds he’d planted a while back. “She is a lot like home. And...and so are you. But I think a lot about the home I used to have. I think about my family.” He glances at Tucker. “I asked Sergeant Rice to help me find my mom. He hasn’t told me anything yet, but I am worried.”

“That they won’t find her?”

“No,” Caboose says. “That they will lie to me.”

Tucker nods. “They might.”

“Which is why I need to do it myself. Maybe they will give that very ugly man my job—”

“Tuthill.”

“He is so ugly,” Caboose mutters, shaking his head. “And maybe they will let me keep it. I don’t know, I am not a fortune teller. But I do know I will have to find my mom by myself. No one on Chorus can help,” he says. “And that’s...that’s why it does not feel like home. Maybe if they left...maybe if _I_ left, I could find a home, or this could _be_ home.”

Caboose reaches over and cuts blooms from the rose bush.

“But it’s not. Not right now.”

 

* * *

 

Tucker carefully avoids Wash the night of the ball. He avoids most everyone except Grif and Simmons, who are on strict orders to tell anyone who asks that he’s still in the bathroom at the apartment because he ate a funky shwarma earlier in the day.

“ _I am not telling anyone that_ ,” Simmons says over the walkie. “ _I told Wash you were trying to be fashionably late. He rolled his eyes._ ”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“ _Do you have the codes to get into Tuthill’s place?_ ”

“Wrote ‘em down months ago,” he says. That was the one good thing that had come from the hacking chip. They’d figured out the code to get into Tuthill’s apartment, and the password to his laptop.

“ _Tuthill just got here and he’s mingling, so you’re good to go._ ”

“Alright.” Tucker’s in his dress blues for the event, so he doesn’t look super out of place going into an officer’s apartment complex. The doorman is distracted and most everyone else has gone to the ballroom on base by now. He ducks behind a corner to avoid a few Corporals before slipping into the elevator after they’ve gone.

“I’m heading up.”

“ _He’s talking to Wash. It’s probably about you._ ”

“Does Wash look uncomfortable?”

“ _Tucker, everyone looks uncomfortable when they talk to Tuthill. He’s like a squid that doesn’t break eye contact — oh shit. Good evening, ambassador._ ” Tucker listens as Simmons has a very stilted, awkward talk with Tuthill, who _doesn’t_ ask where Tucker is, apparently satisfied by whatever Wash said to him. Tucker has to give Simmons credit — his voice only breaks once.

“Dude, that was good.”

“ _That was a disaster! Or did you not hear the part where he said he might leave early?_ ”

“I did,” Tucker admits. He gets off on the twelfth floor and heads to the door at the end of the hall. “Just keep an eye on him.”

“ _I’m trying. This is a lot harder than we thought, I just—_ ” Simmons stops to direct some of the catering staff. “ _Also I didn’t realize how crazy I’d look talking to myself._ ”

“You’re these peoples’ boss, tell them to fuck off.” Tucker punches in the code for the door and it opens. “Okay, I’m in.”

“ _Good. I’m going to do my job, but I’ll check in and I’ll let you know if something changes._ ”

“Great, whatever.” Tucker turns off the radio because he can hear the party going on and steps further into Tuthill’s apartment, letting the door close behind him.

It’s...more spartan, than he’d imagined. Even Wash and Carolina’s rooms have more character than this. He glances around — there are a few photos of Tuthill’s wife and kids, a letter from someone important, and a shadow box with some medals taken out for the ball. The computer is on a desk in the living room, so Tucker goes there, types in the password, and starts looking through folders on the desktop.

Tuthill didn’t access much of this stuff when Tucker was watching him. He’d gotten the feeling sometimes that Tuthill might have known, so it feels _good_ to be able to open some folders he knows he definitely should not be opening. He knows Junior’s name with the Sangheili is currently Kal ‘Tucker, but there’s nothing that comes up, except an email with his name in it about a visit a few years back, archived to a folder somewhere.

Frustrated, Tucker gets up and starts leafing through the drawers. Junior’s first and only correspondence had been through an official letter. Tucker sees the stationary in a lot of the drawers, signed off by different couriers.

It’s been ten minutes so he turns the radio back on — and gets Simmons whisper-screaming at him at full blast.

“ _—the fuck are you?_ ”

“Dude, I’m still here.”

“ _You turned off the radio—_ ”

“Yeah, the party was distracting.”

“ _Tuthill spilled fucking sorbet all over his jacket and he went home to change. That was eight fucking minutes ago, he is fucking closing in on you, Tucker!_ ”

 _Shit._ If Tucker turns and goes now, he’ll have time to at least hide down another hall before Tuthill gets back, but he’s not _done_ yet. This is his last chance, this is his _only_ chance, and he feels close to something. He knows there has to be something here, he _knows_ —

_I write to you concerning my father, Lavernius Tucker. My last three letters and emails to him haven’t been answered. My commanding officer suggested I reach out to you, since you are with him on Chorus. If you could tell him I’m looking for him —_

Tucker’s heart _swells._ These are letters. From his _son_. About _him._

Another one: _Commander Tuthill, I understand you know where my father is, but you haven’t responded to my messages, and it seems I cannot get an email through to you—_

And another: _I tried to get contact information for President Kimball, but I was told by your assistant that I was not allowed to reach out to her. From what I understand she’s a rather open woman, so I thought that was strange_ —

And finally: _I haven’t seen my father in some time. I was told he had died, but I know for a fact he did not. Please let me know if he has gotten any of my messages. If he doesn’t want to see me, if he is uninterested, I’ll gladly desist, but as I’ve received no response_ —

“Uninterested...doesn’t want—” Tucker turns the letters over in his hands. “Son of a _bitch_.”

“Yes,” Tuthill says behind him. Tucker turns, and sees him flanked by three other officers. “Son of a bitch indeed, _captain._ ”

 

* * *

 

“You broke _into his apartment_ , you looked through his property, you _bugged_ him—” Kimball is pacing in front of the chair which Tucker is currently handcuffed to, while Tuthill looks on, smug. “Tucker, I cannot believe we are having this conversation.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“ _Sorry_ does not begin to cover what it will take to move on from this,” Kimball says, “You’ve done all this in flagrant violation of UNSC legislation. The commander is _well_ within his rights to press charges—”

“I intend to,” Tuthill says. He’d had the gall to _change_ before they’d taken Tucker away. The sorbet was probably an excuse to leave the party. “But I have a ball to return to. I’d suggest throwing him in a cell, maybe, if you’re so inclined—”

The door behind them opens, and Sergeant Rice walks in, Wash right behind him.

“Ah, Sergeant—”

“Leave us, ambassador.”

“I...just was. Perhaps I could convince you to tag along—”

Rice shakes his head. “I need to talk to the captain. I’ll see you in the morning, most likely.”

“...Sir—”

“ _Gavin._ ” Rice turns toward Tuthill who seems to jump at his first name. He nods and salutes, before ducking out of the office. Rice sighs and turns toward one of the soldiers in the corner. “Uncuff him, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Free of his restraints, Tucker looks between Rice and Wash as Rice orders everyone but Kimball out. Wash sits in a chair by the window and looks at Tucker...strangely.

“Um, I’m sorry, Wash. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine, Tucker.” His voice is even, collected. “The sergeant just needs to have a quick word.”

Rice nods and pulls up a chair in front of Tucker. “I understand that you’ve...been trying to get into contact with your son. A Sangheili ambassador.”

“ _Yes_ , for months now—”

“I was told, when you started. Tuthill said he had everything under control. I assumed, at the time, it meant he was doing what he could to help you. When he told me he wasn’t, I didn’t know what to think. I don’t mean this to insult you, Tucker, but you and your son are not exactly on my list of priorities. I thought perhaps you and Tuthill might work it out. Then he told me he thought you’d bugged his apartment, so he limited his access to official documents. I still didn’t focus on it. The Sangheili are a non-issue, on Chorus. Tuthill is here as a formality. I let him do as he pleased.

“He told me tonight that he thought you were going to break into his apartment. I told him not to be paranoid. Again, no offense meant—”

“I’m starting to get offended.”

“You’re a sim trooper. A talented soldier, but a sim trooper nonetheless. I told Tuthill to relax, have a good time.” Rice leans back in his chair. “And then I get two calls.”

“...Two—”

“One is from Tuthill, who tells me he’s arrested you for breaking into his home. The other had come ten minutes earlier, from Theel ‘Gardum. Do you know who that is?” Tucker shakes his head. “He is Tuthill’s main contact at the Sangheili embassy. He tells me he’s been being _harassed_ by one of his ambassadors. That the boy insists he has a human father, and that human father is on Chorus. He wants Theel to make some calls, get him planetside, go over Tuthill’s head and come straight to me, or President Kimball.”

Kimball is sitting at attention, now, behind her desk. Wash watches all of this, still calm. Still amused.

“Commander ‘Gardum tells me that, not half an hour ago, he caught this ambassador going through very secret documents in his office.”

Tucker swallows. “Is he—”

“They call your son Kal ‘Tucker on the ship, don’t they?” Tucker nods. Rice stands. “I can’t abide by this sort of rule breaking, captain. But I also need to resolve this. Both Commander ‘Gardum and I agree it would be best to put most of this behind us, and allow your son to travel to Chorus.”

Tucker stands, knocking the chair back. “Are you serious?”

Rice steps back. “Um, quite. But you owe Commander Tuthill an apology, and you’ll be suspended from your training program for three weeks—”

“I’m not apologizing to him. He _kept_ letters my son wrote, he lied to me about where he was, he refused to cooperate because he _doesn’t like me_ —”

Rice holds up his hands. “And I will be talking with him—”

“That’s not _enough._ He thinks _Caboose_ is incompetent? At least Caboose made things _better._ At least people _like_ Caboose. Tuthill is a _slug_ , and he thinks I’m trash—”

“Tucker.” Wash is standing by him, now, a hand on his shoulder. “You got what you wanted. Better to leave this alone.”

“But he needs to know—”

“I’m sure he does,” Wash says gently. “Let’s go home.”

It’s true, Rice doesn’t look surprised by any of this. He has his arms folded over his chest, looking a little entertained, if Tucker’s being honest. He nods. “I understand the ambassador is not the most popular. But there’s little I can do. None of this is totally out of the ordinary. Commander Tuthill exercises a certain amount of control where correspondence is concerned.”

“Whatever,” Tucker says, pulling away from Wash.

“I will let you know when we’ve arranged your son’s travel. But, captain—” Tucker turns back to Sergeant Rice. “I am sorry, about the way it was handled. My hands are largely tied, where Tuthill is concerned. I know that disappoints you.”

Tucker takes a breath. Wash nods at him. “It’s...fine. Thank you for your generosity. I’m glad we could resolve this.”

And he turns and walks out.

 

* * *

 

On the elevator up to the apartment, Wash starts laughing.

This time, Tucker doesn’t join in.

“What the fuck is so funny?”

Wash is doubled over, now, and even though Tucker is super fucking pissed — it’s nice to hear him laugh.

“I cannot _believe_ that your kid broke into his boss’s office. I just—”

Tucker smiles, now. “Hey, like father—” This makes Wash laugh harder, his hand clutching his stomach. The sound is hoarse and rough, like an instrument being used for the first time in years. The doors open and they go into the dark apartment, Tucker turning on the lights as Wash finally comes down.

“ _God._ What a _good_ night.” He tugs at his tie, tosses it onto the table and goes to pour them both a drink. “So. Was it worth it?”

“Uh yeah?”

“You could have been court martialed,” Wash says, handing him a glass of whiskey. “You could have been kicked off the planet, tossed in a cell for a couple years. Breaking into an officer’s home is a big deal.” Wash raises his glass. “To you sticking around, I guess.”

Tucker nods, tosses back his drink. “Yeah,” he says. “It was worth it. Would have been worth it if I got court martialed, too. Because you better fucking believe I’d have made everyone’s life _miserable_ until I got what I wanted.”

Wash laughs. “Yeah, I believe it.”

 

* * *

 

Kimball tells Tucker that his son will be arriving at the end of the week, so Tucker spends the days in between mostly pacing back and forth in various rooms, trying to sneak onto base while Wash takes over his weapons training, then being kicked _off_ base by Smith, who apologizes profusely.

“You can spar with me!” Caboose says. He’s been feeling a little better the last few days, which makes Tucker feel a little better, too. “I am very glad you get to see Junior. It’s good when families get to be together.”

Tucker puts a hand on his shoulder as Caboose settles on a bench to wrap his hands. “We’re gonna find your mom, Caboose. I promise.”

He shrugs. “If we don’t...then we don’t. Not every ending has to be happy.” He looks up at Tucker and smiles. “My life is made up of lots of stories. Most are good.” He stands. “Okay,” he says. “I’m ready.”

 

* * *

 

Standing in the docking bay, Tucker feels his hands start to tremble —

And then Kai takes it into her own. Tucker looks over at her. “What—”

“If you want to be alone, I’ll go. _We’ll_ go,” she adds, and Tucker looks over to see Caboose on his other side. One of his big hands comes up to rest on Tucker’s shoulder, and he looks down with a smile. “But we’re here for you, if you need us.”

Tucker looks between them, then gives Kai’s hand a squeeze. “Thanks,” he says, and turns his head to the sky. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Us, too,” Caboose says.

The three of them watch for a while, until a ship appears above, and starts to descend. It grows and grows, grows and grows, until finally it begins to hover over the dock and eventually settle down. Tucker comes loose of his friends’ hold on him and steps forward.

A long time ago, the strangest thing happened to him. But then, after that, stranger things happened. And then stranger things still. Tucker’s life in the last years has been one impossible happening after another. That Junior is not the most unusual one says quite a lot. He smiles and get as close to the ship as he is allowed, hot air from the thrusters blowing his jacket back, nearly knocking him off his feet. He looks over his shoulder and sees Caboose with his arm around Kai, holding her close while they both look on. She gives him a thumbs up and grins madly.

Tucker laughs and looks back —

And there...there he is.

Alien, in name only. Familiar by default.

Junior steps off the ship entirely, and their eyes meet. For the first time in so long, they see one another. And his son was always more alien than anything else, but he has brown eyes that Tucker sees in the mirror every day and it marks them as kin.

Tucker cannot cross the line any closer to the ship, so Junior must go to him. He towers, when they are finally standing toe-to-toe.

Tucker takes a breath, and on the exhale, embraces his son.

“Hey, buddy.”

Junior laughs, and it is a grown man’s laugh.

“Hey, dad.”

They part. Someone hands Junior a bag and he takes it.

Tucker takes a step back and holds out a hand.

“Welcome to Chorus.”


	12. the last of a lost civilization (simmons)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons says goodbye, and then nothing. Grif says nothing. No one says anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you didn't check out a few tags i added, this chapter includes rough parent-child relationship dynamics, mentions of abuse, death due to cancer, discussion of death and parental death, and emotional goodbyes. it does not include any grimmons smooching.

Simmons goes into the kitchen —

And there’s an _alien_ sitting at the table.

He blinks, and then the alien stands, crossing the room to shake Simmons’ hand.

“I’m Kal. Or Junior, I guess. Whichever you’d prefer.” He’s well spoken, human English practiced and even. Simmons remembers that this is Tucker’s _son_ , that he’s an ambassador, so of course his voice sounds smooth. Simmons feels...calmer, just talking to him. For not the first time, he wonders how Tuthill got his job at all. “It’s...Simmons, right?”

“Right.”

Sangheili facial structure is fascinating. Simmons can see an obvious smile, but it works so differently. He would honestly _love_ to talk to Junior all day, but he can’t. He has to get to the hospital.

Kai seems to sense this. She presses a tumbler of coffee into his hand and says, “We can walk together.”

“Nice to see you,” Simmons says to Junior, still intrigued, as he heads out the door.

In the elevator he takes a sip of his coffee and asks, “How is he?”

Kai shrugs. “Fine, I guess. Quiet. Does as he’s told when you’re not around, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She glances over. “I did tell him if he gave me any shit I’d strap him to the bed and withhold his morphine. Emily was proud.” They step off the elevator together and walk to the hospital in silence.

Simmons’ father arrived on Chorus two days ago. Simmons had wanted to let someone else meet him there, but this had been his decision, he wasn’t going to subject Jensen to it, even if she was falling over herself to volunteer for the job. So he’d pushed his father’s wheelchair to General and let the doctors take over from there.

His oncologist said he has a month, at best.

“The cancer is incredibly advanced, we’re really looking at hospice care, from here on out.”

That was about when it hit, that he’d brought his father here to die and he’d have to be the one to deal with the ramifications. Everything before had just felt like it was happening to someone else. But now he’s here, and Simmons is standing outside his room, watching the oncologist, Dr. Levi, finish her chartwork while Kai switches out the morphine drip.

In his memories, Simmons’ father is larger than life.

In reality, in the present, he is a creature of brittle bone, resting amid a sea of white sheets, his eyes barely open.

“There he is,” Dr. Levi says brightly, as Simmons comes into the room. “Your father was just asking after you, captain.” Simmons nods. “I’ll be back in a few hours to go over your bloodwork.” She smiles and heads out of the room. Kai follows her, putting a hand on Simmons’ elbow briefly before closing the door behind them.

From the bed, his father coughs, then says, “Captain, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Everyone calls you that. Captain Simmons this, _Captain_ Simmons that.” He sniffs. Simmons goes to sit beside him. “Must’ve done something pretty special.”

“There was a war here, dad. We fought in it.”

“Doesn’t seem like there was.”

Simmons doesn’t feel like explaining the places Caboose has told him about, the buildings in the little towns outside the capitol still riddled with bullet holes, where the people are still trying to recover. He just shrugs.

“Well. Glad you got something of me.”

Simmons looks up sharply. “What?”

“You sure as shit didn’t learn to _lead_ from your mom.”

“I didn’t get it from you, either.” Simmons got his father’s eyes, his red hair, his frame and allergy to strawberries. “You’re only here because of mom, so I wouldn’t start if I were you.”

His father points. “I _made_ you into something. You owe me this. I—” He cuts himself off with a wet cough.

Dr. Grey said his father was suffocating. That the cancer in his lungs was destroying him entirely.

Simmons wonders if it could happen faster.

 

* * *

 

He leaves when his father gets too tired to fight anymore, and goes to his office. The tram station is almost finished, and the repairs to the capitol building after the bombing are finally done. Everything smells like fresh paint and cut glass. Simmons sits behind his desk and rolls the shoulder holding his cyborg arm. It still kicks, sometimes, but it freaks out most everyone who comes by his office to see him without it, for some reason, so he usually leaves it on.

It’s been a shitty morning, though, and he deserves a little comfort before his final adjustment on Thursday, so it comes off.

He near _moans_ with relief, just as Grif says, “Keep it in your pants.”

Simmons opens his eyes. “Ha _ha_.”

Grif grins and sits in the chair on the other side of the desk. “How’s it going?”

“Awful. I’m going to smother my father, then I’ll have to go to jail.” He spots the place in the arm that’s giving him trouble and makes note of it for later in the week. “Did I make a mistake?”

Grif shakes his head. “No. You did what you thought you should. Just because you hate it doesn’t mean it was the wrong choice.”

Simmons leans back in his chair. “Maybe.” He looks at Grif, and Grif looks back.

He was going to say something important, the night of the explosion. Now it feels so small. Now it feels like he shouldn’t even have to. Now it feels like they’ve maybe run out of time.

Is there a perfect window, to tell someone you love them? Does a moment in time like that exist?

He has loved Grif longer than he’s known some truths about himself. When you feel that way, do you ever really run out of time?

Simmons doesn’t know. He _does_ know that he’s maintained unending eye contact with Grif for twenty seconds now, and he’s growing uncomfortably hard in his slacks.

Grif stands abruptly. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Yeah. Yeah, dinner.” Simmons sits ramrod straight until Grif shuts the door to his office, then collapses back with a groan.

Window or not, this is starting to become a problem.

 

* * *

 

It seems that, all the time, their little table is getting more crowded than the night before.

Sarge is back in the apartment, and Dr. Grey is in the kitchen, helping Caboose stir something in a large pot on the stove.

“Just add these?” he asks, and she nods, passing over a handful of chives that he drops into the pot.

Simmons hangs his jacket up. “Smells good in here.”

Caboose looks up with a grin. “I’m making chili!” He glances behind Simmons and calls out to Tucker, “There’s more chairs on the balcony.”

“Got it!” Tucker and Junior make their way inside and get everyone a spot at the table.

Simmons grew up eating at little tables sitting across from his mom, or in McDonald’s with his dad. When he was first in Red Army, they ate at long tables in a mess, and even in Blood Gulch, Sarge maintained a strict adherence to certain meal time regimens, at the start.

Now, he sits at the head of the table and passes down a basket of rolls and pours Dr. Grey a glass of wine. He listens as Caboose tells as story and laughs at a joke Junior tells in Sangheili. Simmons smiles and, on his right, Grif nudges him.

“You feeling better?”

Simmons looks at him.

The window feels awfully far away when Grif is this close. He nods and lets Grif take the last roll from his plate with a grin.

“Snooze you lose, Dick.”

“Very funny.” Simmons turns his focus back down the table.

He helped make this family, he realizes.

He helped make the choices that brought them here.

And he’s happy for that.

His own father is in the hospital, alone tonight, and Simmons couldn’t feel further away from that part of his life. There is nothing that could bring him close, nothing that could bring them together. Nothing that could make them whole again. Choices were made there, too, and that’s all he knows.

Tucker brings him a beer from the kitchen, and their little family makes a toast.

It’s not a special day, but it’s a good day.

Considering the lives they’ve led, it’s worth a toast.

 

* * *

 

“I brought you some books.”

Simmons stands awkwardly in the doorway of his dad’s room, lifting a little tote.

His father looks up from his breakfast. “What kind?”

They’re some of Wash’s books, a bizarre collection of sci-fi and alternative history novels that Wash insists are classic, but Simmons can’t find any proof of. “Just some old paperbacks. I don’t know if you’re interested.”

“Beats sitting here, waitin’ to die.” He finishes his eggs and Simmons hands him the bag. “I, um.” He clears his throat. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

They sit in awkward silence for a while, the only sound the steady beep of monitors and his father’s thumb brushing over old paper. Simmons takes some water, picks up one of the books and starts reading. Wash has terrible taste in literature, he has no idea what Donut really sees in the guy beyond, like, abs. And general personality, Simmons figures. Wash is a nice guy. Donut’s a _great_ guy. And they both —

“Why’d you bring me here?”

Simmons looks up. “Huh?”

“You said it was because of your mom that I was here in the first place. I wanted to know why.”

Simmons sets the book on the side table. “...She never let me say a bad word about you. Even when I was right. Even when it was...when I was totally justified. She just...didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to hear good things about you either, but that was the deal. We just...we didn’t say a bad word against you. And when she was dying, she said that, eventually, I was going to be all you had left.

“You’re here because I love her more than I hate you.” Simmons picks up the book again, goes back to trying to find something worth reading.

After a few minutes his father laughs. “That’s really sayin’ something. Isn’t it?” He glances over. “Because you really hate me.”

“Yeah, dad. That was the fucking point of that story.” He stands. “Let me know if you want the books or not. I’ll be back later.” He heads out of the room, ready to get out of this place and honestly just go home and fucking crawl back into bed —

“Where you goin’ in a huff?”

Simmons stops outside a room and looks in to see Sarge having his blood drawn.

“Oh. Good morning, sir.”

“Aw, can it.” He glances at the needle in his arm. “You almost done?”

The nurse nods. “Just another minute, Colonel.” She moves away as Simmons steps into the room.

Sarge looks back up at him. “You okay?”

“I’m...yeah. I’m good. Just brought some books to my dad.”

Sarge nods. “Em said your old man was here. How’s that goin’?”

Simmons shrugs. “It’s fine.” Sarge raises a brow. “It’s just been a long time. We don’t really get along.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. My old man wasn’t much to write home about. Worked ‘til he died. Not much else to say.” The nurse pulls out the needle and places a bandage over the spot before taking her things and heading out. Sarge picks up a fig cookie and chews it thoughtfully. “It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

Simmons doesn’t want to answer that question. He sought a father figure in Sarge for _years_. Prayed and pleaded to anyone above that would listen for Sarge to give that to him. Now they’re in the position of Simmons...no longer needing it, and Sarge finally being soft enough to give it, without even realizing it.

It fucking sucks, honestly.

But it’s better than feeling alone.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s complicated.” He goes and pours Sarge a cup of water. “I think it’s going to work out alright, though.”

“Well he’s gonna die here, isn’t he?”

Simmons nods. “That’s the idea.”

Sarge takes a long drink. “Maybe you’ll have time to say your piece, then. I’m sure there’s some things you’d like to get off your chest.” He passes the cup back and stretches out on the bed. “I’m gonna nap.”

“Alright, sir.” Simmons sets the cup down and heads out of the room.

 

* * *

 

He’s not always sure how to act around Kai.

Simmons is very much aware that she knows how he feels about Grif. And while he’s certain she must know how Grif feels about him, there’s a wall there he isn’t sure how to get around. Or if he even wants to. Kai would tell him, maybe, just to push them both along, but he’s also very certain she’d guard her brother’s privacy.

When Grif isn’t around, she is fiercely protective of him.

So it’s not really surprising when she walks into his office, closes the door on his assistant, and says loudly, “When are you gonna tell my brother you’re _in love_ with him?”

Simmons looks up. “That’s a terrible way to schedule an appointment.”

“Are you an idiot, Simmons?” She sits on the other side of his desk.

“That’s a trick question.”

“Well, you seem like an idiot. Like I know your brain is bigger than your balls, or whatever, but you’re a fucking moron from where I’m sitting. Both of you are, honestly.”

Simmons sets down his pen. “It’s a lot more complicated than that, Kai—”

“I mean, I _guess._ I don’t know why it has to be. Look, with Caboose, things are simple. He tells me how he’s feeling, I tell him what I need. When we first got together, that’s how it was, too. Before? When we were walking around, trying to act like we couldn’t be together? That was _hard_. It was dumb, too. Now, it’s easy. And you know, _your_ life could be east, too.”

“You sound like a terrible infomercial.”

“Are you _happy_ , sitting around like this? Like are you excited that your life is turning out this way?”

Simmons looks around. “...What way?”

Kai shrugs. “Waiting for your dad to die, alone. Going to bed, alone. Waking up, _alone_.”

“ _Alright,_ ” Simmons snaps. “I get the very depressing and very vivid picture.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s just...it _isn’t_ so simple. You and Caboose, you never really _knew_ each other before. Like yeah, you met him in Blood Gulch, but it all ended so fast after you got there. Here is where you got to, you know. Fall in love.” Simmons sits back. “I’ve known Grif for a _really_ long time.”

Kai frowns. “I don’t get it.”

Simmons glances up. “When you know someone, and when you _love them_ for that long, and you keep it to yourself it just...it becomes like a part of you. Like the way I feel about Grif is...it’s a facet of who I am. And if we do this, if we move onto the next part—”

“...You’ll leave that person behind.”

Simmons frowns. “Yeah…”

Kai suddenly moves forward and grabs his hand. “You have to tell him. You _have_ to say something. Simmons, you have no idea what you mean to him, no idea what you _could_ mean, if you’d both just—”

The phone rings.

She grips his hand tighter. “Do not answer that.”

“I have to—”

“Go get Grif, go tell him—”

“Kai, I’m sorry—”

He picks up the phone.

 

* * *

 

“ _He’s crashing, we’re losing him—_ ”

“ _Get that going, I need chest compressions—_ ”

“ _Who has the fucking ventilator, I need—_ ”

Simmons stands just outside the orbit of the people taking care of his father. Kai’s hand hasn’t left his in an hour. She’s off duty today, so she waits with him, waits for the people to disperse and for someone to tell him what’s going on.

“Your father is no longer breathing on his own. This...is where we move into hospice care. We’d thought surgery could be an option, but now—”

“He’s dying.”

The oncologist winces. “He was always dying.”

“But this is...for real.”

She nods. “I’m afraid so.”

Simmons looks at his father’s face, placid after the chaos, soft despite the years. “How long?”

The oncologist glances at the ventilator. “That’s up to you, captain. Your father can’t breathe without the machine. When you decide to shut it off, that’s when this will be over.”

He squeezes Kai’s hand without thought, and she squeezes back.

“Okay,” he says.

Simmons looks at the machine.

It’s all that stands between him and letting all of this go. The books he brought are still in a stack by the bed. This part of his life, this part of his world —

It’s almost over, now.

It’s almost time for the end.

The oncologist leaves, and Kai stands.

“Do you want me to get anyone?”

Simmons shakes his head. “No.”

“...Alright.” She leans down and cups his cheek. “You aren’t alone. There’s so many of us here for you.”

“I know,” he says. “I just…” Simmons looks back at his father. “This just needs to be...me and him. Just us.”

Kai nods. “Alright.” She kisses his temple before taking a step back. From the doorway, she calls to him softly, “Hey.” Simmons looks to her. “I love you. You’re my family. I hope you understand that,” she says, before leaving him alone.

For a few hours, he reads one of Wash’s books that he finally finds palatable. A nurse comes in to check a few things, asks if he needs to speak with a therapist on call.

“No,” he says. “I’m alright.”

“Dr. Grey is aware of the situation. She’ll be here whenever you’d like.”

“Tell her I appreciate it.”

The woman nods. “Of course.”

Simmons goes back to his book.

After another hour or so, his father opens his eyes. The nurse told him earlier the medication would likely keep him asleep, or at least on the edge of it. Simmons leans in and carefully takes his hand.

“I know this is it,” he says quietly. “I know for you and me, this is...goodbye. I keep going over in my head why I brought you here, and why I’m mad at myself, why it’s so hard to deal with it, you know. And I think...I think I’ve figured something out.”

Simmons takes a trembling breath.

“I used to love you. I can remember so much from when I was young, and the way I felt when you walked into the room. You were my _dad._ I was so proud to be with you. I would wait for you to come home and then you _would_ and it was like something _fantastic_ happened, every time. But I did,” he says. “I loved you. And I remember that. I don’t love you, anymore. You hurt me, and you hurt mom, and you...you walked out of my life and you expected me to still want to have something to do with you and I couldn’t. I couldn’t be around you. But I remember that I used to.

“And that’s why this sucks so much. That’s why it hurts.”

His father’s fingers twitch in Simmons’ grip.

“Yeah.” Simmons nods and angrily wipes the tears from his cheeks. “I know.” He takes the hand in his and presses the knuckles to his lips. “I wish I could have kept loving you. It’s what I keep looking for, and I don’t know why I look for it in all the wrong places, but I’ve got it, somewhere. I just...I need to reach out and get it.” He stands. “I’m going to have someone shut off the machine, now. And that’s going to be it for you and me.”

As he moves, his father’s other hand reaches out, gripping his wrist.

Simmons turns, and his father nods.

It doesn’t take long, after they shut the ventilator off. Simmons sits by his father’s bed and reads aloud from one of the books, until there is no sound, and there is no movement. The oncologist gives the time of death, and the heart monitor whines into the dark until someone shuts it down.

 

* * *

 

He goes home, and he sleeps.

He’s not sure for how long. Kai comes in to tell him they need to know if he’d like his father cremated, and he just nods before rolling over and going back to bed. At some point Caboose brings him some cookies and a glass of juice, which he drains and sets on the bedside table before passing out again.

This...was supposed to feel good. He was supposed to feel unburdened. He was supposed to feel unchained.

All he feels is an _ache_ , starting in his sternum and spreading like roots through his body, into his mouth, leaving a bitter taste.

He’s trying to get dressed when someone knocks and he calls out, “Come in.”

Grif stands in the doorway, looking sheepish. For some reason, it injects _fury_ into Simmons’ bones.

“I...should have come to the hospital.”

“You didn’t need to.” Simmons pulls on a clean shirt. “I needed the time I had with him.”

“But you were alone.”

“And I did fine.” He goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. It’s been...a couple of days.

“Simmons—”

“What do you _want_ , Grif? Do you want to come and tell me you’re sorry? Because I don’t need that. Did you want to tell me you’re sad my dad is dead? Because honestly I don’t really fucking know _how_ I feel about it. I thought it was going to feel good, I thought I would be fucking _free_ and you know what? I really just—” He throws the toothbrush into the sink.

“I really just don’t know _what_ I fucking feel right now.”

Grif sits on the edge of the unmade bed and Simmons’ fucking _gut_ turns over.

“It’s hard to say goodbye—”

“Get out.” Simmons points to the door. “I don’t need you. Not right now.”

Grif watches him for a second before he nods. “Alright. I know you’re upset.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I’ll talk to you when you feel better.”

“Yeah.” Simmons follows him into the hall. “You fucking do that,” he snarls, before slamming the door shut.

 

* * *

 

Someone hands him a standard urn. Simmons has no idea what to do with it.

“That’s your dad,” the cremation guy says, pointing at it. Such a simple way of putting things, and yet—

“...Thanks.” Simmons signs a form and leaves the hospital with the little jar. He has no idea what to do with it, no idea if he should _keep_ it. That seems weird, like maybe he...shouldn’t. Like maybe he should find a place to spread them, or maybe he should just put them in the garbage. There’s a trash can right outside, no one would really know what he was tossing.

He sighs and heads back to the apartment. Maybe if he waits, maybe if he sleeps on it, the answer will come to him.

Caboose is the only person home when Simmons gets in. He comes inside from the balcony where he’s been stretching after a run, points at the urn and asks, “Is that your dad?”

“...Yes.”

“They put my dad in one of those, too.”

“Oh.” Simmons looks at the container. “I’m not sure what to do with it.”

“Are you keeping him?”

He shakes his head. “I’d rather not.”

“You could spread the ashes somewhere.” Caboose sits heavily on the couch. “But there aren’t many places here to do that.”

“Yeah…” Simmons puts the urn on the coffee table and sits next to Caboose. “You’ve seen a lot of Chorus, haven’t you?” Caboose nods. “Have you seen anywhere I could...where I could do this?”

“Yes. Lots of places.”

Simmons sort of waits a few seconds while Caboose fumbles with the laces of his shoes. “...Caboose.”

“There’s a really nice beach. It takes about three hours to fly there. I could take you tomorrow. Smith can fly us.”

“Oh, I don’t want to...I wouldn’t want—”

“I should go there anyway. The town is called Merope. We could stay if you wanted, or just go for the day.”

“The day’s fine.”

Caboose nods and stands. “Okay. We’ll leave in the morning.” He starts to head up the stairs, but Simmons calls after him.

“Wait. Don’t...don’t tell Grif. Okay?”

“ _Okay!_ ” Caboose calls down.

Simmons doesn’t trust him with that bit of instruction at all.

 

* * *

 

It feels strange, getting on a ship without his armor. Caboose settles in with ease, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and jotting down something in his notebook while Simmons clings to the urn in his lap.

Just a few minutes before they’re scheduled to take off, Caboose looks at Simmons and says, “Um. I messed up.”

“What did you—”

Grif’s familiar footfalls are coming up the ramp and Simmons _hates_ that he can pick out the way Grif walks in a crowd. He hates that he can find Grif in a group of a million, or that he can hear his voice among a thousand others.

It makes it hard to be angry at him, even if there’s no good reason for it.

Grif stands on the threshold of the ship and looks Simmons up and down. “Is this where you tell me to fuck off again?”

Simmons looks at Caboose. “I _told you_ not to tell him.”

Caboose raises his hands. “I didn’t! I, um. I told Kai.”

“He tells her everything,” Grif says.

Caboose huffs. “I do _not_. I have _secrets._ ”

“Whatever.” Grif goes and sits next to Simmons. “I’m going with you. You’re not doing this alone.”

“I didn’t ask you to. I don’t _need_ —”

“Well I’m going anyway, so stop complaining.” Their knees are touching. There are five other places Grif could sit, but he doesn’t bother moving. Fucking typical. Simmons slouches, shifting the urn from one hand to another. Maybe he’ll just toss it out the back once they take off. Maybe he’ll —

“Um.” Caboose is standing over him, holding out his hands. “Would you...I mean do you want me to...to hold it?”

 _God_ , is he so obvious that Caboose can read the panic in his face? Does Caboose know how freaked out he is? Does _Caboose_ see how scared of this he is?

Simmons swallows. “Yeah,” he manages, and hands the urn over.

It’s going to be a very, _very_ long trip.

 

* * *

 

The spot Caboose picked though…

It really is beautiful.

“I’m going to go talk to the mayor,” he says, when they land. “I’ll be in town when you’re done.” There’s no pressure or time limit attached to that. Smith waves as he follows his colonel into town while Simmons and Grif are left standing on the dock that overlooks the beach. Caboose had given the urn back just before they started their descent, so Simmons is holding his father’s ashes again, his grip strangely tight.

Now that he’s here, he can’t remember _why_.

“Come on,” Grif says gently. “Let’s go do this.”

“No.”

“Yeah, man. You wanted to be here.”

“Because I thought it was going to _feel good._ But it doesn’t, Grif.” This is all the same shit he shouted at him a few days ago. It’s always the same shit they fight about. Their life is just this _record_ , playing over and over. Sometimes there’s a scratch, sometimes someone flips it over.

Or maybe it’s _his_ life that’s a record. Because the scratches and the mystery tracks — those are all Grif, it seems. Simmons had had his life planned out, ages ago. Grif, people _like_ Grif — messy and apathetic and content — they were never meant to fit into the picture. They weren’t variables Simmons considered.

 _This_ — standing by a beach on a strange planet with the only person he has ever trusted to save his life — this was never part of the plan.

Simmons takes a breath and nods. He walks away from the ship and down the switchback of stairs that lead to the beach. Grif hangs back as he approaches the water. He looks right at home, here, Simmons thinks. He watches as Grif sits in the sand and kicks off his shoes, digging his toes in. Simmons does the same. It’s been _ages_ since he stood on a beach properly, since ocean waves washed up and over his feet, leaving brine on his ankles and toes.

He unscrews the lid to the urn.

“Okay.” Simmons closes his eyes. “ _Okay._ ” He’s lucky the wind is at his back. Kind of...perfect. As Simmons holds the jar out, he opens his eyes and watches the wind pick up the ashes and blow them out into the sea.

_Oh._

The urn grows lighter and...so does he. By ounces and pounds, by inches and miles. He worries, for a moment, that he’ll get blown away, too.

But then Grif is by his side and their shoulders brush, and he's anchored. 

He lowers his arm and lets the urn hang at his side.

Simmons feels Grif's finger's brush against the palm of his other hand and just...stay there, connecting the two of them at the barest point.

 

* * *

 

They stay in Merope for a while, watching Caboose go around and talk to different people, helping him unload some supplies. It’s hard, silent work and Caboose leaves with a longer to-do list than he had when he got there, but he seems pleased with everything they’ve done as the ship takes off. Grif leans back in his seat and immediately passes out, so Simmons gets up and goes to sit next to Caboose, who is looking over some of the notes he took down.

“Thank you,” Simmons says.

“Hm?” Caboose at him. “Oh! Oh, sure. It’s no problem.” He looks back down at his book. “I know it’s...it’s hard to say goodbye.” He turns the pages to the back and pulls out a photo. It’s been carefully folded in half over the years, so there’s a sturdy white line going straight down the middle, but Simmons can still clearly make out the faces. Caboose hands it to him.

“Is this your family?”

“Yes.”

Simmons takes it in. So _many_ girls, some of them holding the smaller ones. Caboose stands in the back, towering over them all next to another girl who almost matches him in height. An older man stands on his other side.

“That’s my dad,” Caboose says quietly, _reverently_.

“How’d he die?”

“Cancer.” Caboose takes the photo back. Simmons wants to know about all of them, suddenly. He never got to be a brother. He feels like he missed out, sometimes. “All the doctors left the colony, and we couldn’t leave.”

“So he just...he just—”

“Yes,” Caboose says again and takes the photo to put it back in its place. “But that was a long time ago.”

“It still hurts though.”

“Well. Somebody died. I know it’s complicated, but it’s always sad when that happens. Even if you feel certain ways about them.” He nudges Simmons with his shoulder. “It’s okay not to know how you feel.” He turns away and closes his eyes. Simmons gets up to go sit in the cockpit with Smith, who doesn’t say much. When they finally land, Caboose signs the ship in and the three of them walk in silence back to the apartment, Grif stifling a yawn every so often.

“Goodnight,” Caboose calls, heading toward his room and waving over his shoulder.

At the other end of the hall, Simmons leans against his door, Grif leaning on the wall opposite him.

“I’m sorry,” Simmons says. “That I shouted.”

“It’s okay. You’re upset.”

“That’s not a reason to treat you like shit.”

Grif huffs a laugh. “Dude, don’t worry about it.” He moves to go down the hall, just as Simmons moves to stop him.

And in the dark, they are very close. In the dark, Simmons can feel Grif’s breath on his neck. He puts a hand on Grif’s arm.

Grif looks up.

Simmons takes a step back.

“I’m glad you were there,” he says.

Grif visibly shrinks. “Me, too.”

“I, um. I’ve gotta—”

“Yeah. Yeah, me, too,” Grif says quickly, and starts heading toward his room. “Get some rest,” he says, before disappearing into his room.

Simmons waits until Grif’s door snaps shut before leaning back and closing his eyes.

He wishes he wasn’t getting too old for this shit.


	13. bare-boned and crazy for you (donut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut asks for the truth, and obtains instant regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i hear you all like wash/donut now cool cool cool cool welcome if ur new here's the boys being dumb sorry this took me literal months

They keep saying he must be a little crazy.

(But Wash understands.)

They keep saying they don’t really _get_ it.

(But Wash tells him to pay no mind.)

They keep saying they’re glad he’s happy, but they’re watching, always watching.

(Wash says he’s used to that.)

Donut bends and folds and sighs under the weight of the past, reaching constantly for the future, and Wash — Wash tucks in against him, Wash presses wet lips to the hollow of his throat and whispers that he loves him, that he needs him, that he has been _waiting_ for him. And Donut can’t help but tumble. It might be a mistake, he reasons. It might be the wrong choice, the ever-present spectre of his past that reminds him of all the ways he is a failure and wrong.

That ghost brushes against all of Wash’s ghosts, and somehow the particles collide and then they disappear. Dissipate like steam and rush past.

They are sort of alike, in that way. They come from strange places, have become strange people. Not at the same time, and not by the same hand, but the fact that they sometimes share a bed and can grasp at similar threads is nothing short of a miracle, Donut thinks.

 

* * *

 

He’s sort of adapted to the hearing loss on his right side. Over the years he’s just kind of learned which way to turn his head, or how to read lips. Lately, though, it’s been getting worse, to the point where he got out of the shower, his right side turned to Wash, and he didn’t realize he was being spoken to until Wash nudged him with his elbow.

“You okay?” he’d asked, and Donut had just looked at him for a second, waiting for the sounds he’d been hearing on one side to catch up to the other.

So he’s sitting in Dr. Marietta’s office, some hearing doc Grey hired a while back, waiting to get the results from his exam a few days earlier.

“Well I can safely say that you’re officially going deaf in that ear.”

Donut scowls. “It was fine a few years ago.”

“And, in between, you’ve undergone a _lot_ of trauma. Blood loss, a civil war, any of it’s enough to affect your hearing over time.”

Donut leans back in the chair, worrying at one of his thumbnails. It’s been a crazy week, so the nail’s been whittled down to the bed. Wash says he has fickle fingers.

“What should I do?”

Marietta shrugs. “Depends on what you’d _like_ to do. You’re not my worst case, by far, but I can see why it bothers you. There’s no surgery for it. If there was a growth stopping you from hearing that’d be one thing, but right now the best choice I’ve got for you is a hearing aid.”

Donut nods. “Okay. Can we get it done fast? I have a lot on my plate right now.”

“Absolutely. I’ll let the techs know and we can get you fitted for one next week. Is that alright?”

“Yeah. It’ll have to be.” Donut stands and they shake hands before he heads out of her office and toward the elevator of the hospital.

He’s sort of lost in thought, so he doesn’t notice the presence on his left side until Wash says gently, “You okay?”

Donut flinches, which quickly clouds Wash’s expression. He lives in constant fear that Donut will reject him, or tell him he can’t do this anymore. Donut’s assured him a thousand times over that he _wants_ to be doing this, that he cares and he’s in love with him, now, after they’ve talked and talked and _talked._

It’s exhausting, sometimes, dating a guy who tried to kill you.

He forces himself to soften, reaching down to take Wash’s hand in his. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m good. She wants to fit me for a hearing aid next week.”

Wash’s expression brightens. “Hey, that’s great! Right?”

Donut laughs. “Yes, it’s a good thing. I’d very much like to hear you on both sides. Most of the time,” he adds, teasingly.

Wash smiles as they stop outside the elevator. He leans in, lips brushing Donut’s temple. “I need to go see Dr. Yue, but I’ll be home later.”

“Alright.” Donut closes his eyes for a moment and tips into Wash’s space, enjoying the soft scent of a clean sweater and the military soap his still insists on using. “I’ll see you.” He pulls back and steps onto the elevator, watching as Wash waits until the doors close between them both.

 

* * *

 

Donut keeps one leg hooked around Wash’s waist, holding them both steady as Wash fucks him. He’d started slow and steady, but his pace now is born of necessity, and they both know it. The need to feel as good as possible, to push and _push_. Donut threads his fingers through Wash’s hair and tugs, tipping his head back to expose his neck. Wash’s teeth dig in, tongue laving over the spots where he bites and scrapes.

“Come on,” Donut murmurs. “That’s it, baby, that’s it—” He groans as Wash’s cock starts pressing against his prostate, reaching down to get himself off. “Little bit more,” he says, and Wash picks up the pace, the air snapping between them as he cries out, thrusting once, then twice as he comes. He stays still as Donut hits his own climax with a gasp. Wash hisses as Donut clenches around him before they both melt.

Wash pulls out and stumbles from the bed to clean himself up, coming back with a towel for Donut. He collapses onto his part of the bed and sighs. “That was good.”

“Of course it was.” Donut tosses the towel away and kicks the sheets off to cool down. “Rough day?”

Wash shrugs, absently scraping blunt nails over his chest, staring up at the ceiling. Donut lets him have this. He might be struggling to recall something important, or he might just need the quiet. Donut takes the opportunity to get up and do some cleaning, picking up the clothes they tossed aside in a hurry and folding them over the back of a chair. He tugs on some sweats and opens the door to the balcony. The capitol doesn’t suffer from any sort of winter, so as December presses on most things remain unchanged except the cool bite in the air.

He hears Wash shifting behind him, and turns to find him perched on the side of the bed, his back bowed over, head in his hands. The careful bend of Wash’s body is a thing to be studied and admired. Every inch of him was once a finely tuned instrument. Donut supposes it still is, just with a different purpose now. Restrung, a bit. He goes and reaches down to cup Wash’s face in his hands, lifting his gaze.

Forgiveness is...powerful, he thinks. It’s worn them both down to the creatures they now insist on being, both with one another and everyone around them. Wash has been forgiven a hundred times over, done a fair bit of it himself. He turns his head and presses his lips to Donut’s palm.

“I had something to say,” Wash says. “But now I can’t...I can’t remember.”

“That’s okay.” Donut bends down and kisses him. “I’m sure you’ll think of it later.”

 _God_ , he thinks.

_What a pair we are._

 

* * *

 

“Kimball cancelled the design review,” Olivia says, instead of _hello_ , because she was raised the wrong way.

“Good morning to you, too.” Donut takes off his jacket and hangs it up before going to get a cup of coffee. “Any particular reason why?”

“Some meeting with some UNSC bigwigs, I guess. Her assistant didn’t say.”

“Not even on the super secret assistant chat?”

Oliva glances up. “That’s a _secret_ chat, captain. You aren’t supposed to know about it.”

“I know everything,” Donut says, and breezes into his office. He has a dozen things to do, designs to approve, armor meshing to test out later, if Wash is amicable to letting his recruits become guinea pigs for the afternoon. Donut senses Olivia lingering in the doorway, so he waves her in and she sits across from him happily, tablet prepared to take notes.

“We’ll use the delay to strengthen our argument about the meshing. Call Wash and see if he can spare some soldiers.”

“On it.”

Donut looks over a few things on his desk and sighs. He’s so tired, all of a sudden. God, what day is it? Does he really have to be here?

He looks at Olivia, who his hunched over her tablet, working on an email, gnawing on her bottom lip.

“Let’s leave,” he says, and stands.

She looks up. “What?”

“Let’s leave. Let’s...let’s just take the day.”

“Sir…”

“I’m exhausted,” he says, and grabs his jacket. “I’m going.”

“For real?” Olivia follows after him as he heads out of his office. “I can just...go?”

“Yeah, and I’m only saying it this last time. Take the day, enjoy yourself, come in late tomorrow.” He sees a few UNSC suits coming up the hall, maybe headed for him, maybe not. Donut doesn’t know. He does know the UNSC is crawling up his ass, and not in the fun way. He _does_ know that their time on Chorus has the potential to suddenly dry up, and why is he spending it crowded into this office, working on things Kimball doesn’t have the fucking time to look at?

He knows the way to Wash’s office by heart, could do it blindfolded. Wash is hunched over some papers at his desk when Donut gets there, and doesn’t notice someone is standing in his doorway for a full minute, which gives Donut time to catalogue — the freckles across Wash’s nose, the scruff coming back in that he keeps saying he’s going to shave and then doesn’t, the way he pinches the tip of his tongue between his top and bottom teeth when he’s focusing on something, the way —

“You’re staring,” Wash says.

“Ah. _Busted._ ” He grins and steps in, shutting the door behind him.

“Donut—”

“Hm?” He turns the lock and Wash sighs.

“ _Donut._ ”

“If you don’t have time for what I’m about to do, we could always—” Wash stands and grabs the front of his shirt, pulling him awkwardly over the desk to kiss him. Donut climbs onto it, hungrily kissing Wash back, sliding a hand up and into his hair to _tug._

“Ten minutes,” Wash says breathlessly.

Donut grins. “You _wish_ you could last ten minutes with me,” he says, and crawls off the desk, lowering himself to his knees at Wash’s feet. Wash groans as Donut’s hands reach up to work with the belt of his fatigues before he collapses into his chair.

He definitely doesn’t last ten minutes, but Donut is in Wash’s office far longer than that, a chair pulled up beside him at the desk, watching him work, watching him remember, watching him thrive.

 

* * *

 

He leaves Wash to his work and heads home. It’s nice to walk through the capitol in the middle of the afternoon, watching people go about their lives. Folks have relaxed since the bombings subsided, and he can see the Grif and Simmons’ work everywhere he looks.

Their apartment is quiet, but he can hear murmuring coming from the balcony of the main floor as he steps in. Caboose and Kai are outside, him sitting in a chair and her standing behind him, a pair of scissors in her hand.

“You ready?” Donut hears her ask, as he steps closer.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Here we go.”

Donut watches as she starts measuring strands of Caboose’s dark curls and trimming them. He suddenly remembers a scene a lot like this, on Iris, with Wash in Kai’s place, a pair of scissors in his hand as Caboose told him how his hair used to look, before the half-hearted chops he gave himself back in Blood Gulch.

 _Here we go_ , Wash had said, while Caboose closed his eyes and black curls fell to the floor.

He’s looking at Donut now, though, and smiling. “Hi, Donut.”

“Hey, Caboose.”

“I needed a haircut,” he says, easily, and Donut is so _happy_ for him, in this moment. So happy that Caboose isn’t alone, that he is loved by a hundred thousand people living on this planet. Donut wants to sit on the balcony with them and watch, but it’s a moment richly colored by the intimacy Caboose and Kaikaina share. They speak so quietly to one another sometimes, it’s a wonder they can hear each other. But they do. Donut leaves them to it, running a hand through his own hair.

He goes to his room and finds Artemis sitting on his bed — Wash spends most nights in Donut’s room, and so his cat has made it her own, stretched out on the middle of the bed, looking at Donut as if to say, _what are you gonna do about it?_

“Move, you,” he says and she howls at him as he falls onto his pillow, closing his eyes and reaching out to pull her close. “Naptime, baby cat.

“Naptime.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay.” Dr. Marietta steps back. “How’s _that?_ ”

“Loud,” Donut says, and reaches up to pull the hearing aid _out._

Marietta nods. “Okay, we’ll adjust the volume, but you should be ready for what we talked about.”

Donut is _not_ ready for that — for everything to be extra and amplified, for his head to immediately start aching, though that could be because of a hundred other things, too.

He’s had kind of a shitty day.

He fought with Wash about nothing important this morning, Olivia was late and he shouted, _he_ was late for a meeting with Kimball and _she_ shouted — and now it feels like the entire _world_ is shouting at him and he _doesn’t like it._

“Don’t wear it all day,” Marietta says. “Just a little bit at a time, to get used to it. Watch TV with the subtitles on, if you can. Read out loud to yourself.”

Donut’s brain conjurs up Wash’s terrible sci-fi novels, the ones he's been reading because knowing _that_ part of Wash, the part that was David, the part that is still a strange little nerd, the part that spent summers in a tree house reading until his mother called him in for dinner — Donut _needs_ to know that part.

“Sound good?”

 _Sound_. He had heard the air conditioning, a minute ago. He’d heard the ding of the elevator, a minute ago.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, Wash comes into his room, apologizing, tripping over himself, trying to make up for earlier that day.

Donut just pulls him close and kisses him stupid, tugs at his shirt until they are both scrambling for the bed. It is messy, when Wash wraps a loose hand around Donut’s cock and gets him off. Good messy. Soft and kind messy. They lay there for a while, and then Donut reaches for the third book in the _Martian Expedition_ series, opens to where he left off, and starts reading out loud.

It only takes ten minutes for Wash to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Man, that dude _loves you_ ,” Tucker says one afternoon, while they’re sitting at the kitchen table in the apartment.

In retrospect, Donut will wish Tucker had kept his mouth shut, but he loves hearing from other people how fucking _wild_ Wash is about him, so he smiles and leans back in his chair.

“Kind of hard _not_ to be,” he says easily, and Tucker laughs.

“Yeah.” Tucker’s been _happy_ , ever since Junior came. And even though it’s supposed to be a secret, Donut knows Tucker’s been learning more Sangheli, and there’s a rumor, the _tiniest_ rumor, that Tucker is gunning for Tuthill’s job.

Donut really hopes he does.

“I just...I wonder if…” Tucker says, waves a hand. “Fuck it, forget I said anything.”

Donut leans forward. “No, it’s okay. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Tucker sighs. He knows Wash, different than Donut does, in a way Donut’s often envied. Tucker and Wash and Caboose were a _team_ , for a very long time. They’re a family in a way that all of them together are not. Caboose goes to Tucker and Wash for help and advice before he goes to the others. Wash went to Caboose and Tucker for help with his memory, and there are things the three of them know and understand about one another that Donut is certain it will take him _years_ to learn.

And that is, of course, the first time ever he’s thought about _being_ with Wash for years.

But he wants to.

He suddenly wants that very much.

“It’s just—” Tucker is still thinking through this, he realizes. “It’s Wash, you know? Like...like Wash has _baggage._ ”

Donut sighs. “Tucker, we _all_ have baggage. I _know_ that—”

“Wash shot you, Donut. Don’t you think he wonders about...about _why_ he did it, every time he looks at you?”

Donut frowns. “We’ve talked about it.”

“About why?”

“Yes—” Donut stops.

No, he realizes. They haven’t.

Tucker makes a face. “I’m sorry. I told you, I shouldn’t have said anything. It was stupid, I just...I worry about him, you know? He’s been through so much shit, and I know you guys have worked through things, and you’re getting better and you _love_ him, but I just...I think it’d be hard. I think it’d be really hard to be in love with someone who tried to kill me. And I think you’re a better guy than I could ever be. I...let Kai go,” he says finally. “I could have fought for her and I let her go and I’m _not_ in love with her, but like…”

“You could have been.”

Tucker nods. “Yeah. And I think about how I just gave up because of one reason or another, but you...you and Wash…” He sighs. “I’m not making any sense. Forget it.” He stands and looks at his watch. “I’ve got a class to get to. I’ll see you later, dude.”

Donut nods and watches him go.

He should have told him to shut the fuck up.

 

* * *

 

“...Wash.”

“Hm?” Wash has his eyes closed and he looks... _calm_. For a moment, Donut thinks about not doing this. He thinks about not dredging this up, but there is a part of him that has _always_ been this way. A part of him that wants to reach out and get burned.

“Why’d you do it?”

Wash rolls over to face him, eyes still closed. “Do what?”

“Wash.” Donut sits up as Wash stretches and opens his eyes. “Why...why _me?_ ”

Wash tucks his arm behind his head and furrows his brow. “Why...why do I love you?”

Fuck, that hurts.

Donut shakes his head. “The other thing, Wash. Could have been Simmons...could have been none of us, but you...you picked me.” Now Wash is sitting up, and their knees are touching, and Donut wants to take it back, but he has leaned over the edge and into this space already, and he can’t take it back now.

“...Donut.”

“I shouldn’t want to know, because you’ve...you’ve been so great, and this is…” He closes his eyes. “This is important. You and me.”

Wash rubs his hands on his knees and nods. “But you need to know.”

Donut breathes deep. “Yeah. I need to know.”

Wash nods and gets off the bed. He paces for a moment, scrubs a hand over his face, and nods again.

“Okay. I didn’t know you. I didn’t know what...what the _point_ of you was. How were you supposed to help me get what I wanted? I was desperate to get at Epsilon, and what... _use_ were you to me?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I was so _angry._ And you...I didn’t _know_ you. So I did what I was trained to do.

“I got rid of you.”

The words hang, and Donut _regrets_ this. Knowing it in his heart is one thing. Hearing it said aloud is another. Hearing Wash say it _kills him._

“Donut, that’s not how I feel—”

“I need...I need to walk.”

“Donut—”

“I am _useful_ ,” he snaps, pushing himself off the bed. “I saved your asses. I have always been just as important as everyone else.”

“I know that,” Wash says, reaching for him. But Donut pulls away from him so hard — Wash _flinches._ Steps back. “I love you,” he says. “That hasn’t changed.”

“Yeah, well... _well_ —” Donut opens the door, steadies his breathing. “I just. Need a minute.”

Wash grabs the door. “Why did you _ask?_ If you didn’t want to hear this, then why did you ask me? What else do I have to _do_ —”

“Don’t.” Donut turns to face him. “ _Don’t_ ask me that. Because we talked about this, we talked about how this is mine—”

“Well it’s not anymore. It’s _not._ It’s ours, because we are _us_ , now.” Wash moves closer, closes the space between them and presses their foreheads together. “Donut, what I did to you is something I will _always_ regret. But you let me in. You let me make amends and you have to know what that means to me—”

“They have _all_ thought I was useless. Do you realize that? Every single one of them.” He points down the hall. “My team, my friends, my _family_ — they have put me down again and again and I thought, I _really_ thought, that there couldn’t be any part of you that felt the same.” He pushes Wash away. “But I was wrong. Just like always.”

He turns and heads down the hall.

Wash doesn’t call after him.

Wash doesn’t follow.

And Donut isn’t sure why he’s running if that’s what he really wants him to do.

 

* * *

 

Outside, he _breathes._

He has wound up in Caboose’s garden, and he is still alone.

Is he glad that he asked? Is he happy he knows?

Maybe.

Not right now, but maybe...maybe later, it’ll be okay. He reaches out and puts a finger on a pale orange rose. Caboose has done so much with this spot. So much with so very little. Because what does Caboose know about gardening?

 _Maybe a lot_ , he thinks. That really seems like something he should ask Wash, but Wash is still upstairs, sitting with the truth of their past, while Donut _flees_ from it.

“ _Dammit_.” He kicks at the ground and kicks and kicks and kicks until someone puts a hand on his shoulder and —

“You’re gonna break your foot, son.”

Donut flinches — he hasn’t been wearing his hearing aid, and Sarge has snuck right up on him.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says, even as his voice pitches up a handful of octaves.

Sarge raises a brow. Donut hasn’t seen him in a few days, but he’s been in and out of the hospital and Donut’s kind of been caught up in his own nonsense.

He sighs. “How are you, sir?”

“Oh, been better, been worse.” Sarge folds his arms over his chest and looks Donut up and down. “You look a little hot and bothered.”

“I’m _not_ —”

“Donut.”

Donut scowls. He _hates_ that he’s so obvious. He _hates_ that everyone can read him. “I...I made a mistake. Wash—”

“Did he do something? Do I need to _beat_ his ass—”

“No! Jeez, Sarge, _no._ You guys need to _stop_ saying that to me, I did all this myself, god.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I asked Wash a question I shouldn’t have asked. I...I painted the both of us into a corner and now I don’t know how I’m going to get out of it.” He looks up. “I _love_ him. I love him and I still made him hurt me. I love him and I made him tell me _why he shot me._ I love him and I pushed him away. Why did I do that?”

Sarge watches him for a moment, head tipped to the side while Donut _unravels_ in front of him. “I don’t know why.”

“Great. Wonderful. I love these amazing talks you and I have, they’re really life changing.” Donut turns and takes a few steps away. He feels sick.

“I don’t know _why_ you did it,” Sarge says firmly, “but frankly, I don’t think it really matters.”

Donut turns toward him. “What?”

“Why are you worried about _why?_ ”

“Well I...I guess...Tucker and I were talking—”

“Why in the _hell_ are you taking relationship advice from that numbnut? He’s a good kid, but he’s got his own shit to work through and you and Wash were doin’ just fine. Whether I agree with that isn’t really important, mind you.” He steps forward. “Look, someone we do things and we don’t...we aren’t proud of it. I have done and said a hell of a lot of things I regret, including to you, and Wash. Hell, there’s even a thing here or there I regret saying to Grif.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Don’t push it,” Sarge snaps. “The damn _point_ is that you know Wash cares about you. You know that whatever he used to feel, he doesn’t anymore. You forgave him, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Yeah, a thousand times over.”

Sarge sighs. “Then why are you down here, kickin’ at the ground and talkin’ to _me_ when you could be up there telling him that the reason _why_ he did it doesn’t matter?”

Donut blinks. “I...I don’t know.”

“Well _get_ then! Go on!” Sarge gives him a shove and Donut stumbles back.

“Y-yeah. Yeah! Sarge, you’re right. God, you’re so right!” And he throws himself forward, wrapping his arms around Sarge and holding him close. “I _love_ you, sir. You know that?”

“Donut, you’ve got two seconds to get your hands off me—”

“Sorry, sir!” He turns and starts running back to the apartment. “But I do totally love you!” he calls over his shoulder, and books it inside for the elevator. He has to get upstairs, he _has_ to get back to Wash, he _has_ to —

“Donut!” Wash is standing in the elevator as the door opens. “Oh my god, Donut—” He surges forward as Donut rushes to meet him and they _crash_ into one another, almost painfully as Donut presses him against the wall of the elevator and the door’s slide shut behind him. “I should have gone after you, I shouldn’t have waited, I’m so sorry—”

“No, Wash, _I’m_ sorry. I kept our history to myself, when you’re right. You’re absolutely right—” He kisses him and grips Wash’s shirt in his hands while Wash clings to him. “We’re _us_ , now. We’re _together_ in this and...and it’s not going to go away.”

“You are not useless. You are _never_ useless, I love you, you helped _save_ me.”

“No.” Donut shakes his head and kisses him again, trailing his lips over Wash’s cheeks and neck. “We did that together. We helped each other. I love you.”

For a few minutes they stay there, wrapped in this moment, in each other, until the door opens and Sarge swears.

“I am gonna put my foot up _both_ your asses if you do not get upstairs and let me ride this elevator in peace,” he snarls, while Wash and Donut dissolve into a fit of laughter. Sarge grumbles and punches the button for their floor while the doors slide shut in front of him.

 

* * *

 

Donut really loves the way Wash sounds while he fucks him. He _really_ loves the way Wash rolls his hips and throws his head back, exposing the sweat-slick column of his neck that Donut can drag his teeth over while he presses his cock deeper into him. He loves that everything about what they were sort of falls away in these moments, that they tumble further into one another each time they’re together.

The ghosts of his past brush against the ghost of Wash’s, and the particles — they _collide._ Wash once shot him Wash once tried to kill him. Donut once hated this person. And now Donut loves him, loves the way he moves and speaks and _lives_. What they are and were and will be is complicated. What they have and what they do is not.

After, they stay close, and Wash strokes a hand down Donut’s back and kisses the top of his head.

“You know...if we can’t stay on Chorus, I think I wouldn’t mind going back home.”

Donut looks up. “Like...home-home?”

Wash nods. “Yeah. I mean, we’re both from Iowa. We could go back. No idea if there’s anything left for me. But...if it was us. If it was you and me—”

Donut sits up on his elbow and kisses Wash, slow and open-mouthed, hand slipping up into his hair. “I’d go anywhere with you.”

Wash laughs against his mouth. “Anywhere.”

Donut nods. “Absolutely. Name a place, name a time, and I’m there.”

Wash pulls Donut flush with his chest. “Well, I’m happy here, so long as you are.”

Donut rests his head just under Wash’s chin and closes his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am happy here.”

_I really, really am._

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw


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